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"9Shite Sfunb. 

From the collection of the 

^ m 


V lii'h-PQ 


San Francisco, California 




Illustrated Magazine 

For Boys and Girls 

Part II. May to Octobkr, 1921 


Copyright, 1921, by The Cf.nturv Co. 




Pet Shows of the West, The. Sketch. (Illustrations from 

photographs and from drawing by E. Nelson.) Stella George Stent Perry 1014 

Phantom Gold. Serial Story. (Illustrated by George Varian.).AVii)irf^ Paysoti Kempton 868 

992, 1104 

Pig Under a Gate, A. Story. (Illustrated by J. M. Foster.) .Frank Farringtoti 1(XX) 

Finch-Hitter, The. Story. (Illustrated by C. M. Relyea.) ..iJoZ/i/i Henry Barbour 580 

Pirates of the Black Sea. Story. (Illustration from photo- 
graph. ) Mary Lena Wilson 610 

Place Names, Some Interesting. Sketch Pauline Parr 1082 

Poet ok Many Inventions, The Story of the. Sketch Mary R. J'nrkwan 1111 

Poppies Doffed Their Coats, When the. Verse Florence Payee Dai'is. . . . 937 

Preserves. Story. (Illustrated by H. MacGilvary.) Adeline K. MacGihary.. . 621 

Reaper. The Conquest of the. Sketch. (Illustrations from 

photographs.) Mary R. Parhwan 800 

Riding the Guy. Story. (Illustrated by Edwin John Prittie.) .Charles .4. Hoyt 1078 

Rogue's Bargains, The. A Hindu Story W. Norman Brown 649 

Romance. Verse Cornelia Meigs 10,S7 

Roses. A Quadruple Acrostic. Verse James Rowe 695 

Royal Hunt, The. Verse. (Illustrated by the author.) Charles P. Lester 1128 

Sailing of Sir Bobstay, The. Verse. (Illustrated by the 

author. ) Charles F. Lester 924 

Sailor's Child, The. Verse. (Illustrated by 1. W. Taber.) . .Gracr Clementine Hozves. 978 
Sir Whackitt's Final Round. Verse. (Illustrated by the 

author.) Charles F. Lester 616 

Sky Pir.\te, The. Sketch. (Illustrated by Charles Livingston 

Bull.) Samuel SeoTille. Jr 693 

Sly Fox Caught the Jaguar, How the. Story. (Illustrated 

by Ellsworth Young.) Ellen C. Babbitt 1120 

Small but Game. Story. (Illustrated by C. M. Relyea.) Marie Daney 876 

"Snuffer." Sketch. (Illustrations from photographs.) /. Alden Loring 640 

Song-Peddler, The. Verse. (Illustrated by the author.) ... .//cHrji C. Pits.' 910 

Southern Waters. Verse. (Illustrated by Henry C. titz.) . .Sfniicc L. Kcnyon 867 

Sportsmanship in Tennis. Sketch. (Illustrations from pho- 
tographs.) William T. Tilden, 2nd. . 675 

Squirrel-Folk. Sketch. (Illustrated by George A. King and 

from photographs.) Samuel Seoznlle, Jr 782 

Star, How to Make a Five- Pointed. Sketch, with diagrams 731 

Summer Gown, A. Verse Blanehe Elizabeth Wade. 705 

. Tennis. (Illustrations from photographs.) William T. Tilden, 2nd. 

Sportsmanship in Tennis 675 

Nerve in the Pinch 788 

Thanksgiving. See "Goodly Heritage, A." 

Thistle Elf, The. Verse. (Illustrated by the author.) Edith Ballinger Price 1028 

Unromantic Sea-Chest, The. Story. (Illustrated by Ruth 

Hallock.) Dorothea Castelhun 884 

Until the Last Putt Is Holed. Sketch. (Illustrated by C. 

M. Relyea.) Francis Ouimet 974 

"Using His Head." Pictures. Drawn by E. W. Kemble 649 

Who Will Go A-Gipsying? Verse. (Illustrated by Henry 

C. Pitz.) '.Edith D. Osborne 70.T 

Winner of the Blue, The. Story (Illustrated by Edward 

C. Caswell.) Brewer Corcoran 1113 

Win OR Lose! Story. (Illustrated by Victor Perard.) Bayard Daniel York 1068 

Wishing. Verse Eleanorc Myers Jewett.. . 1120 

Yang-tse-Kiang, On the. Verse. (Illustrated by Harold 

Sichel.) .ficrton Braley 912 


Nature and Science for Young Folk. (Illustrated) 655, 750, 847, 943, 1039, 1135 

The Automatic Pilot (. Russell Bond 

The "Talking Thread" 1 Russell Bond 

The Stars in May Isabel M. Leivis 

Rolling Over- a Capsized Battle-ship i. Russell Bond 

Constellations for June Isabel M. Lewis 

Propelling a Boat with Pumps 4. Russell Bond 

The Bohemian Waxwings R. Bruee Horsfall, Jr. 

Electric Power "Banks" A. Russell Bond 

Fair- Weather Signals Dorothy Arno Baldwin 

The \N'ireIess Preacher A. Russell Bond 

Constellations for July Isabel M. Lewis 

A Bumblehee in a Spider's Cave R. Bruce Horsfall, Jr. 

Crewless Railroad Train .4. Russell Bond 

Constellations for August Isabel M. Lezvis 

A Toad's Drink George A. King 

A Bucket That Did Not Splash 4. Russell Bond 

Henequen, or Sisal Hemp L. de J. Osborne 

Tlie Stars in September Isabel M. Lezvis 

The Diary of an Elevator Cable 4. Russell Bond 

Some Puzzling Tracks /. Syneaton Chase 

Constellations for October Isabel M. Lewis 

The Watch Tower. A Review of Current Events. (Illus- 
trated.) Edward N. Teall 650 

745, 842, 938, 1034, 1130 

For Very Little Folk. The Tiptoe Twins. Pictures drawn 

by Isabel Morton Fish 660, 756. 852. 948. UU4. 1 140 

The St. Nicholas League. With Awards of Prizes for 
Stories. Poems. Drawings, Photographs, and Puzzles. 
(Illustrated.) 662, 758. 854, 950. 1046, 1142 

The Letter-Box 671, 766, 862, 958, 1054, 1150 

The Riudle-Box .672, 767, 863, 959. 1055, 1151 


The Making of the Flag. A Patriotic Masque. (Illustra- 
tions from paintings by Henry Mosler and J. L. G. 
Ferris.) H. B. Alexander 726 


" 'The King, at Y'our Service,' Answered the Old Gentleman." 

(Drawn by W. M. Berger.) Facing page 579 

Putting the Stars on the First Flag. Painted by J. L. G. Ferris " " 675 

"They Had Reached .^MERICA AT Last!'' Drawn by Henry C. Pitz " " 771 

"On, the Surge of Southern Waters." Drawn by Henry C. Pitz " '• 867 

September's Flower, the Goldenrod. Painted by Charles C. Curran " " 9()3 

"'Hail! All Hail! Lord James ok RKniuRn Is with Us!'" (Drawn 

by E. C. Caswell.) " " lO.Sy 

Contents of Part II. Volume XLVIII 

Ailsop's Fables. Retold in \'crse. (Illustrated by Oliver 

Herford.) Oliver Hcrford ..: 600 

Am Fleet, The Flawless. Verse. (Illustrated.) Minnie Leona Upton 894 

.^1RPLA^•E Patrol, The. Sketch. (Illustrations from photo- 
graphs.) Lyman E. Stoddard 771 

Apple Blossoms. Verse Don C. Seits 599 

Aviators — New Makers of War Maps. Sketch. (Illustra- 
tions from photographs.) James Anderson 1029 

Aviator's Tribute, The. See "Fancy Free." 713 

Bamboo Mountain, On the. Sketch. (Illustrated by W. M. 

Berger.) Nina Sutherland Purdy. . 1073 

Barber Who Became a Knight, The. Sketch Mary R. Parkman 1006 

BiNKiE AND BiNG. Story. (Illustrated by G. Frances Andre ).E!canore Myers Jewett... 1007 

Bird Migration. See "High Sky." 

Black Leopard of Sumatra, A. Story. (Illustrated by John 

S. Curry.) IVarren H. Miller 918 

Black Sheep's Coat, The. Story. (Illustrated by Henry C. 

Pitz.) Cornelia Meigs 806 

Blue Byke, The. Story. (Illustrated by Douglas Ryan.) . ..Z>ow'd Q. Hammond 714 

Borrowers, The. See ''MacDonald Grit, The." 690 

Boy Hunters in Demerara. Serial Story. (Illustrated by 

J. Clinton Shepherd.) George Inness Hartley. . . 630 

706, 816 

Burroughs, John. See "John o' Birds." 780 

Campers, Hints for. Sketch, with diagrams 5'. Leonard Bastin 733 

Camp Roosevelt. Sketch. (Illustrations from photographs. ).Li7/iaH £tt't'r/j-^n 840 

"Captain Kid." Verse. (Illustrated by Reginald ^wch.) .. ..Robert Emmet Ward 1032 

Catbirds, A Camera Adventure with. Sketch. (Illustra- 
tions from photographs.) Howard Taylor Middleton 593 

Caught in the Act. Story. (Illustrated by VV. M. Berger.) .if ^nrji Ross 579 

Cheating the River. Story. (Illustrated by Edwin John 

Prittie.) Charles A. Hoyt 895 

Clock, The Fable of the. Verse. (Illustrated by Reginald 

Birch.) Florence Boyce Davis. . . . 1061 

Clothes. Verse. (Illustrated by Decie Merwin.) Jane Brown 732 

Collections Hildegarde Hawthorne. .. 1012 

Comical State o' Things, A. Verse Ruth Plumly Thompson. . 929 

Corn-Field, The. Verse. (Illustrated.) Daisy i\L Moore 1067 

Crow, The. See "Sky Pirate, The" 963 

Dante. See " 'Divine Poet' of Florence, The." 

Democracy. Verse. (Illustrated by Albertine Randall. 

Wheelan.) Luibel L. IVhitney 592 

Denewood. See "Luck of Denewood, The." 

"Divine Poet" of Florence, The. Sketch. (Illustrations from.^ 

photographs. ) Klyda Ricliardson Steeye 969 

Dragon's Secret, The. Serial Story. (Illustrated by C. M. 

Relyea.) Augusta Huicll Seaman, (A2, 696 

Eagle and the Tortoise, The. ( Illustrated by the author.) . .C. J. Budd 1031 

Enterprising Enterprise, The. Story. (Illustrated by Har- 
old Sichel.) R. Ray Baker 1096 

Faery Magic. Verse. (Illustrated by the author.) Henry C. Pita 681 

Flag, The Making of the. See "Plays." 

Football Generalship. Sketch Sol Metcger 1 101 

Freedom, On. \^erse firginia Woods Mackali. 828 

Garden, A Spell to Keep the. Verse. (Decoration by Anne 

Merriain Peck.) Helen Coale Crew 875 

Golf, (illustrated by C. M. Relyea.) Francis Ommet, 

Keeping Fit for Goli 61.i 

Ijui 1 and \ oulh — (jood Team-mates yi-* 

Until the Last Putt Is Holed V/'} 

Goodly Heritage, A. Verse Aitidrcd cu.suii 815 

Haunted Swamp, The True Story of the. (Illustrated by 

Harold Sichel.) , T. Morris Lunystreth 878 

Hedgehog, A Tame. See "Snuffer." 

Heirlooms, A Glimpse at Our Country's. Sketch. (Illus- 
trated.) Wilbur Cass 827 

"Here Beginneth the First Lesson." Verse. (Illustration 

by Georg Stoopendaal.) Berton Bralcy 02o 

High Sky. Sketch. (Illustrated by Charies Livingston BnW. ).iiamuel Scoville, Jr 1062 

"Inspiring Genius." Verse Florence Boyce Dazns. . . . 922 

Inverse Time-Limit Relay, The. Story. (Illustrated by 

Edwin John Prittie.) Charles A. Hoyt 987 

"Isn't a June Wedding Just Lovely?" Picture. Drawn by 

K. B. Kirby 695 

Jack the Kill-0-Watter. Story. (Illustrated by Herbert R. 

Norton.) Charles A. Hoyt 596 

John o' Birds. Sketch. (Illustration from photograph.) Mabel Anstey Murphy... 780 

Kit, Pat, and a Few Boys. Serial Story. (Illustrated by C. 

M. Relyea.) Beth B. Gilchrist 60J 

718, 799, 906, 980, 1089 
Knights of the Wild-Fire, The. Story. (Illustrated by 

Arthur Henderson.) Mary Constance DuBois. 822 

Korea, A Trip TO. Sketch. (Illustrations from photographs.) .C/inWi'.t Burnett 926 

Land Call, The. \'erse. (Illustrated by the author.) Edith Ballinycr Price 743 

Land OF Tot, The. Verse Ralph Henry Barbour ... . 917 

Little Things, The Fun — and the Immensity — of Hildegarde Hawthorne . . 1059 

Louis Philippe. See "Caught in the Act." 

Luck of Denewood, The. Serial Story. (Illustrated by 

Emilie Benson Knipe.) I Aldcii Arthur Knipe \ ^jg 

\ Emilie Benson Knipe ! 

736, 829, 930, 1021, 1121 

MacDonald Grit, The, or The Borrowers. Story. (Illus- 
trated by Edward C. Caswell.) ^- May Hohday 690 

Manufactured Motives. Story. (Illustrated by X^ictor 

Perard. ) Louise IV. Bray 586 

Mary Lou's Medal. Story Margaret E. Curtis 682 

Merry Rain, The. Verse. (Illustrated by Decie Merwin.) .. ./ctii- £/'/>?r/ 703 

Mightiest Eagle, The. Story. (Illustrated by Phillips 

Ward.) /• Horace Lytle 792 

Musician, The. Verse. (Illustrated by Anne Merriani 

Peck.) Faith I 'an I '. I 'Has 98() 

Nerve in the Pinch. Sketch. (Illustrations from photo- 
graphs.) It'illiam T. Tilden, 2nd. . . 788 

New York's Executive Mansion, The Biggest Family in. 

Sketch. (Illu.stration from photograph.) Harold McCoy 744 

"No-Hit" Game, The. Story. (Illustrated by Victor Perard.) J. /?a.v»«om/ fi/rftTf/i'iv 897 

Paper Houses? Why Not. Sketch. (Illustrations from 

photographs.) Charles K. Taylor 837 

"Pathfi.nders, The." Picture. Drawn by .Arthur T. Merrick 973 

Penelope's Ship. Ballad. (Illustrated by \V. M. Berger.) . ..F/orfinrt' Boytv Z)ai'u 776 

Perhaps They .Are. Verse. (Illustrated by Reginald Birch. ).,-ir//i«r Guiterman 1033 

Peter TO THE Rescue. Story. (Illustrated by J. O'Neill.) -irchibald RutUdge 6.36 




Public Lil 



MAY, 1921 

CopjTigUt, 1921, by Tiiii Century Co. .\U rights resented. 

No. 7 




By ^AMr^T' 


NE fine May morning about se\enty years 
ago a little French boot-black was 
standing at the entrance of the Pont 
Neuf, one of the finest of the man\' 
bridges that cross the Seine between the t\\'o great 
di^ isions of Paris. 

The boy was watching lor customers, but there 
was none to be had >et, for it was too earK". .\t 
length, finding nothing else to do, he took a piece 
of chalk from the one untorn pocket that he 
possessed and began to sketch a face upon the 
stone parapet of the bridge. 

.\ strange face it was, ver\- broad across tlie 
jaws, and narrow ing as it sloped upward, so that, 
with its curious shape and the |)ointed tuft of liai'- 
that stood up from the high, narrow forehead, it 
looked at a little distance like an enormous pear. 
But it was plain that this was the likeness of some 
real man, and that the bo\- was immensely amused 
at it, for he chuckled to himself all the time he 
was working, and more than once laughed out- 

So intent was he on his picture, w hich was now 
nearly finished, as to be unconscious that some 
one was much interested in it, too. 

A stout, gray-haired old gentleman, \'ery 
plainly- dressed in a faded brown coat and shabb\- 
hat, and carrying a cotton umbrella under his 

arm. had come softly across the road, slipped up 
behind the j'oung artist, and was looking at the 
pearlike face on the wall with a grin of silent 

And well he might, for. strange to say. his own 
face was the ^•ery image of that which the boy 
was sketching so eagerh". The queer, pear- 
shaped head, the large heavy features, the tuft 
of hair on the forehead, and even the sly expres- 
sion of the small, half-shut eyes, were alike in 
ever>- point. Had the little artist not had his 
back turned, one might have thought that he was 
drawing this old man's portrait from life. 

But just as the boy was in the height of his 
abstraction, and the single looker-on in the height 
of his enjoyment, the old gentleman happened to 
sneeze suddenU', and the sketcher turned around 
with a start. The moment he caught sight of 
the old fellow standing behind him he uttered a 
faint cry of terror and staggered back against 
the wall, looking frightened out of his wits. 

"The king!" he muttered, in a stifled lone, as 
if the words choked him. 

"The king, at your service," answered the old 
gentleman, who was indeed no other than King 
Louis Philippe of France. "It seems that I have 
come up just in time to scr\"c as a model. ( io on, 
pra\-; don't let me interrupt you!" 



Tlic lio\',s first impulse was to take to his liecls 
at once; Ijut there was a kiiidK twinkle in the 
king's small gniy e>es which ga\e him courage, 
and looking slyly from the pearlike head to the 
ro\al model, he said, "Well, your Majesty, 1 
did n't mean to make fun of you; but it is like you 
— is n't it now?" 

"V'er\- like indeed," said the king, laughing; 
"and I onK- wish the pears in mj- garden would 
grow half as big as that one of yours. Howe\er, 
1 'm afraid 1 have n't time to stand still and be 

sketched just now, so 1 11 give you a likeness of 
myself" — putting a gold twenty-franc piece 
(which was stamped with the king's head) into 
the boy's brown hand — " to cop>- at your leisure." 

There was in Paris a few years ago an old French 
portrait-painter who told his friends and patrons 
that the first portrait for which he had e\er been 
paid was that o( King Louis Philippe himself, 
and he declares that "the old gentleman was not 
such a bad fellow, after all." 



Jerry Benson took the path to the ball-field, his 
iiands in the pockets of his trousers, his last year's 
straw hat tilted back on his tow-colored head, 
and a contented smile on his likable, homely 
countenance. The smile was there because he 
had just finished an examination and was con- 
scious of having done extremely well, all things 
considered. The June morning was blue and 
sparkling, too, and there was a quality in the air 
that reminded Jerry of his own beloved North 
Carolina hills. 

Final examinations, lie rellectcd, had one merit 
at least — they offered spare hours which, unless 
retiuired for "digging," in preparation for the 
succeeding ordeal, might be spent out of doors to 
the profit of one's soul and one's batting average, 
lust now it was his batting average that concerned 
him more than his soul, for, with the first of the 
Cumbridge Hall series but a few days distant, the 
order had gone forth for morning practice at the 
Iiat ting-net. and Jerry, substitute center-fielder 
and pinch-hitler, was on his way thither. 

When he reached the field, only the coach was 
on hand. Mr. Keegan was sitting on the bench 
along the first-base stand in the early sunlight, 
his hands thrust in the pockets of a disreputable 
brown sweater and his gaze fixed in contemplative 
serenity on the toes of his scuffed shoes. Seen in 
that attitude, he was somewhat of a surprise to 
lerry, for ne\'er before had the latter seen the 
coach really quiet! Observing that, although 
bats and other paraphernalia lay ready, none of 
the pitchers were there, he was minded to turn 
back or wander on toward the road. But at that 
moment Mr. Keegan glanced up and saw him, 
so Jerry kejit on. 

"Have to wait awhile, Benson," said the coach. 

"Train was to be here, but he has n't shown uj) 
yet. Guess he will be along soon, though. How 
are you getting along with finals?" 

"Right well, I reckon," said Jerry. "I mean, 
I reckon I 'II pass all right. Course, I ain't been 
here \er}- long and — and it 's sort of hard." 

"Yoti entered in January, did n't you?" asked 
the coach. 

"Yes, sir. You see. Pap could n't get an> one 
to take my place in the store back home and so 
1 could n't come no — any sooner." 

"Your father has a store? Where do \-ou li\c, 

"Huckinsburg. Xo'th Ca'lina. 'T ain't m>- 
father has the store, though. I ain't got nary 
father. Pap Huckins, he took me when I was 
a little feller and looked after me." 

"I see. Like it here at North Bank?" 

"Yes, sir, right well. There 's a nice lot of 
fellers here, sir." 

"Yes, that 's true. Where did \iiu learn to 
play baseball, Benson?" 

"Right here, I reckon. I did n't know much 
about it before 1 come — came here. Course. 
I 'd play at it, like. \\"e fellers at home had a 
nine, and we \isited aroimd and played other 
nines, but we did n't go in much for fancy doings. 
Just hitting the hall and tearing around the bases 
was about all we did. and the fellers that pitched 
did n't know anything about cur\es and drops 
and so on. They were pretty easy, and 1 got 
so 's I could lambaste the ball prett\ hard." 

"Well, it 's stood yoti in good stead, son. You 
certainly hit with a wallop now. I understand 
the fellows ha\e dubbed you Three-Base Benson." 

Jerry grinned. "\'es. sir, 1 reckon so. Sonic 
(if the fellers call me that. Seems like I can't hit 



iioth — amthiiig liul tlii"«--lia[;gcrs — when I do 

"Which is prctt\" frequently," retorted the 
coach. dr)ly. "I wonder if you \-c noticed, 
Benson, that I 'vc never insisted on \ou learning 
to hunt. And I '\e let you keep >our own st>le 
of batting. It is n't quite the st\Ie we aim at 
here, hut I was afraid that if I tried to teach vou 


our wa>', you 'd make a mess of it. .\nd I did n't 
want to ruin a good free-hitter by tr\ing to teach 
liim to cramp his bat. There are otiicrs who can 
lay down a bunt, or crack out a nice little base- 
hit, and so I 've let you alone and >ou '\e devel- 
oped just the way I wanted you to. You \e 
got a fine eye for the ball and a mighty good wal- 
lop, and when you hit them, son, they travel ! 
Don't you worry because they 're always three- 

"No, sir," agreed JerPi', gravelj-. "Reckon I 
might just as well keep on specializing, Mr. 

"Right! '\'ou keep on specializing in three- 
base-hits, Benson, and you '11 fill the bill," laughed 
the coach. "I 'd like to liave two or three more 
such specialists on the team! How do \t)u like 
playing center-field?" 

"Fine. sir. Sometimes it gets sort of lonesoiue 
out there, just standing around and not doing 
much, but I reckon when we jilaj' Cumbridgc 
there '11 be a heap more action. Course," added 
Jerr\-. hurriedly, "I ain't expecting to play in 
them — those games, but whoever does '11 be kept 
busy, likely." 

"Maybe. Still, if our pitchers work the wa>' 
they should, there won't 
be much hitting on Ciun- 
Ijridge's part; I guess. 
And I think you may 
count on pla>ing center 
in one of the games, 
Benson; part of it, any- 
way. If >'ou had the 
experience Beech has in 
that position, I 'd prom- 
ise it definitely. You 've 
tried hard and you 've 
learned a lot in a few- 
weeks, and 1 appreciate 
it, son. And I '11 see that 
>'ou get 5'Oiir chance. 
When you do get it, 
staTid b>' me, Benson, and 
come through witli the 

"Yes, sir," replied the 
bo) , gratefull)' and earn- 
estly, "I 'm aiming to do 
the best I can." 

"I 'm sure of it. You 
came mighty close to 
winning that St. John's 
game, and >ou may ha\e 
another chance just like 
it before we 're through 
with Ciunbridgc. Here 
comes Train and a 
Now we 'II get to work. 
B\- the way, that Cumbridge pitcher, Tanner, has 
a slow ball that 's hard to get, and I 'm going to 
get Train to imitate it the best he can so you 
fellows will know it when you see it." 

Three dajs later, Coach Keegan's foresight 
counted heavily in the result of the first contest 
with the Dark Blue, at Holly, for Tanner, Cum- 
bridge Hall's first-choice twirler, ])itched the game 
through, and that slow ball of his would have 
proved much more deadh' had not the Light Blue 
batsmen learned something of it beforehand. All 
North Bank School went with the team and wit- 
nessed a remarkable game of ball that went to 
fourteen innings and resulted in a 3-,^ tie! 

.\ pitchers' battle from start to finish, with 
Jack Grinnel opposing the red-haired Tanner, the 
content had few stirring moments, ]ierhaps, but 

coujile of the fellows. 




was seldom lacking in the sort of suspense that 
keeps the players ke\"ed to the top-notch of 
efificiencj' and the spectators on the edges of their 
seats. All the scoring came in the first three 
innings; and after that, until it became necessan.' 
to call the game in order that North Bank might 
catch her train, it became a test of endurance, 
with defeat certain to fall to the lot of the team 
that "cracked" first. Perhaps, had the contest 
gone to another inning, the "crack" might have 
come; but as it was, although both Grinnel and 
Tanner had their weak moments when it seemed 
to their respective adherents that a deluge of hits 
was about to descend, both came through in 
triumph. Tanner with a record of nine strike-outs 
and Grinnel with seven. The Light Blue got 
eleven hits off Tanner, only one of which was 
good for an extra base, and the Dark Blue got 
eight from Grinnel, one good for three bags and 
one for two. Sharp fielding on both sides sec- 
onded the pitchers' work. 

In such disappointingh' indecisive fashion, 
then, ended the first game of the series between 
the ancient rivals, and North Bank departed in a 
downcast mood. But before school was reached, 
some one sagely pointed out that if the Light 
Blue could win next \\'ednesda>'s game on her 
home field, she would have the series and the 
championship, since a third game was, by the 
agreement, called for only when the first two 
contests left the matter of .supremacy undecided. 
And a tie game and a win would settle the ques- 
tion beyond doubt! Even Jerr>' Benson, who 
had adorned the substitute's bench all the after- 
noon, foimd his disappointment lightened by that 
cheering news. 

That night, in Ntmiber 7 Baldwin, Jerry lis- 
tened \\liile his room-mate, Tom Hartley, who 
played third base, discussed the situation with 
Captain "Pop" Lord and "Tub" Keller. Pop 
played at first, and Tub caught. The captain 
of the nine was much more optimistic than an\' 
of the rest. "W'c ought to be mighl\' glad we 
managed to tic the game and did n't get licked," 
he said. "As it is, all we 've got to do is win on 
Wednesday, for to-day's game is as good as a 
\ictor>" in that case." 

"Weil, they won't start Tanner again," ob- 
scr\-ed Tub, "and that other pitcher of theirs, 
Thorogood — " 

"What 's his name?" interrupted Tom Hartle\-, 

"Thorogood. And he is good, but not so 
good as Tanner, and I '11 bet we can hit him." 

"Maybe," objected Tom, "but Keegan will 
pitch Thacher. Keep that in mind, old son." 

"What of it? Look at their records. Hal 
has won as many games as Jack, and — " 

"He has pitched more games, you chump! " 

"Never mind, he 's all right. I '\e caught them 
both, and I know. Besides, if Hal wobbles. Jack 
will be read\- to take his place. Take it from 
your Uncle Bud, fellows: if we can hit Thoro- 
good, we can cop the old ball-game!" 

"'If'!" murmured Tom. "There 's a whole lot 
in an ';/'/" 

But Pop Lord Laughed. "Keep your head up. 
Tom. Remember that we 'II be on our own 
grounds, with our own crowd behind us. \\'c '\c 
got to do it, and we 're going to do it!" 

Later, when the two room-mates were read\' 
for bed. Jerry said: "Tom. why you reckon Mr. 
Keegan did n't let me pla>- none to-day?" 

Tom paused in the act of crawling between the 
sheets and hugged his knees a moment before 
replying. Then: "Why. I figure it out like this. 
Jerry," he said. "Keegan felt a lot like a fellow 
walking along the top of a fence. Just as long as 
he keeps going he 's all right, but if he stops to 
change his feet or take a breath or anything, why, 
o\er he goes! That game was mighty tiddley 
toward the end. Maybe, if Keegan had run in 
some new chaps to hit, we might ha\"e broken 
through and copped enough runs to win. And 
maybe we would n't have done anything of the 
sort. He 'd have had to take out fellows that 
were placing the game of their lives, and maybe 
the old game would have blown right up. Any- 
way, I guess that 's the way he figured it. Along 
toward the last of it, about the best he was hop- 
ing for was an even break, for Jack was getting 
mighty tuckered." 

Jerr\' nodded, relieved. "II that 's how it 
was," he said, "I don't mind. 1 thought ma\hp 
he reckoned I was n't good enough. Tom. " 

"Well, that 's the way it was. old sou." an- 
swered Tom. cheerfully. "When you get through 
admiring your feet you might just douse the glim." 

Monday was a day of hard practice, but on 
lucsday. -siive for an hour of easy fielding and 
baiting, the team had an afternoon of rest. That 
night there was an enthusiastic ma.-is-nieeling in 
Hall, and .North Bank's hopes ran high as she 
cheered and sjing and listened to speeches. Cum- 
bridge Hall descended on the school the next da>', 
more than two hundred strong, and had a lot to 
say about what was to happen, and said it, more 
or less nuisically, as they paraded up from the 

Save that Thacher was on the mound instead 
of Grinnel and that Royce had replaced McGec 
at .second. North Bank went into the game with 
the same line-up that had played in the first con- 
test. McGee had injured his leg in practice on 
Monday as a result of tr\ing to block a runner at 
base. His injurx-, however, was not serious, 


thh: imncii-hu'Tkr 


and there was no question ot his abilii\- to take 
his position back should Ro\'ce not gi\e a satis- 
factory- account of himself. Jerrj-'s secret hope 
of going in at center-field was blighted when 
Manager Birkenside read off the batting-list. 
Ted Beech was again slated for the position, and 
Jerry once more joined the bench-warmers, dis- 
appointed, but uncomplaining. 

On the third-base stand one whole section was 
vi\id with dark-blue banners. Across the dia- 
mond, the North Bank color showed more pro- 
fusely, if less brilliantly, and North Bank cheers 
were incessant as the ri\al teams took their places, 
Cumbridge at bat and the Light Blue in the field. 
Hal Thacher threw a few wild ones to Tub Keller, 
the umpire called "Play!" and the head of the 
\isitors' batting-list took his place and thumped 
the rubber determinedly with his bat. Then the 
cheering died away and the long-looked-for game 
was on. 

Hal Thacher caused his friends a lot of uneasi- 
ness that first inning, for he appeared to be sufi'er- 
ing from stage-fright and had much difficulty in 
finding the plate. He passed the first man up 
and put himself promptly in a hole with the 
second. Fortunately, the latter, when he did hit, 
knocked out a high tl\' to short left that \\'a\ne 
Sortwell captured easil>'. Again Thacher pitched 
four balls and there were two on. Cinnbridge 
cheered and shouted and stamped hopefully. In 
an efibrt to catch the runner on second napping, 
Thacher wheeled and pegged hurriedly to Jack- 
son, and the ball flammed into the dust and 
trickled into the field. Before it was retriex'ed, 
the runner had j-lid lu ihird. A moment later, 
the man on first look second wilhoul challenge. 
With but one gone and men on third and second, 
the outlook seemed far from rosy for the home 
team, but Thacher settled down long enough to 
strike out the fourth batsman, and then, when 
the next man hit a weak one to the in-field, to get 
the ball ahead of Ro\-ce and slam it to Keller, at 
the plate, in time for a put-out. 

Thorogood, like Thacher, began with a bad 
inning, but, as in the other's case, escaped punish- 
ment. Jackson was hit in the ribs and took his 
base, Lord hit safeh' for one, and Conway fiied 
out to short-stop. Ro>ce was passed, adx'ancing 
the runners and filling the sacks; but Tom Hartley 
fanned, and Sortwell was an easy third out, 
second to first; .After that, the contest proceeded 
uneventfully to the fifth inning. Both Thacher 
and Thorogood had found their stride, hits were 
scarce and runs entirely missing. In the fourth, 
Conway reached third, with two out, and died 
there when Ro>-ce fouled out to catcher, and that 
was as near to a score as either team got in the 
first half of the game. 

The fifth 0|jened with Cumbridge's hard-hitting 
left-fielder at bat; and that youth, a canny judge 
of balls, waited until Thacher had to offer him 
something reasonable. And when he did, he 
laced it into far center for thre^ bases. That 
punishment seemed to grieve the Light Blue's 
pitcher so that he had no heart for his work in 
the succeeding fi\-e minutes, with the result that 
two more singles were added to Cumbridge's 
column and two runs came across. A fine double- 
play by Jackson and Lord stopped the \'isitors. 

North Bank went otit in one- two-three order in 
her half of the inning, but in the sixth, after hold- 
ing the enemy, she brought delight and confidence 
to her adherents by scoring her first tally. This 
came as the result of a jiass to Tub Keller, followed 
by a nice sacrifice fl\' b\' Thacher that placed Tub 
on second. Jackson fanned, then Pop Lord 
found something he liked and slammed it through 
the pitcher's box, and Tub scored. Lord went 
out a moment later in an ill-advised attempt to 
steal second. 

There was no scoring in the seventh inning by 
either side, although Cumbridge got men on 
second and first before a batting rally was nipped 
by some fine jjitching. That inning witnessed 
the replacement of Beech in center-field by Jerry 
Benson, and the return to his position in the in- 
field of McGee as a result of loose playing on the 
part of the hard-working, but inexperienced, 
Royce. Of the Cumbridge nine, just four men 
faced the pitcher in the seventh. 

For North Bank, Conway began things with a 
bunt that placed him on first by a hair's-brcadth. 
The lunijire's decision brought loud criticism from 
the \isitors, but, since he was ten feet from the 
base and they at the other side of the diamond, 
it is fair to assume that he was in a better position 
to judge the play. At all events, that decision 
brought North Bank her tying run. McGee's 
attempt to sacrifice resulted in his retirement, the 
ball dropping softly and safeh' into second base- 
man's hands. 

Then it was Jerry's turn; and as he took his 
place, a ripple of laughter arose in the Cumbridge 
stand. Jerry's "form" at bat was, to say the 
least, peculiar. He stood well back from the 
plate, his long legs wide apart and his bat held so 
far back that it lay almost across his shoulder- 
blades. He did n't swing his bat, nor, having 
once firmly established himself, did he move at all 
until he offered at a ball. He just watched the 
pitcher and then the ball, and waited. But al- 
though the Dark Blue rooters expressed amuse- 
ment. North Bank heralded Jerry's appearance 
with joN'ful acclaim, while the out-fielders, at the 
command of the short-stop, who was also Cum- 
bridge's captain, wandered farther backward. 




Tliorogood had heard of Jern', as had liis catcher, 
and while the Light Blue's rooters expressed 
dissatisfaction in numerous ways, the catclier 
stepped to the right and Thorogood threw out to 
him. There was no question of reaching any of 
those balls, and Jerry had to stand there helpless 
until four of tliem had drifted past and the 
umpire motioned him to his base. For Jerry that 
was a heart-breaking and degrading experience, 
and he ambled to first with drooping head, quite 
as though he were personally responsible for what 
had occiu'red. 

It was left to Tom Hartley to deli\er the hit 
that would bring Conway home and place Jerry 
on second, and Tom deli\'ered it nicel>', in the 
shape of a screaming single, just out of short- 
stop's reach. But that ended the scoring in the 
inning, for Sortwell struck out and Keller lifted 
a fly to right-field that retired the side. 

There was no scoring in the eighth. For that 
matter, no one reached first base for either team. 
The rival pitchers were going strong again, and 
two strike-outs fell to each. 

The ninth started with the head of Cumbridge's 
balling-list up. With one man out, a fly to short 
left eluded Sortwell, and the runner, taking a 
desperate chance, went on to second and slid 
under McGee's arm just as the latter swooped 
around the ball. That, too, was a questionable 
decision, jierhaps, in which case it exened up for 
the former one. When the dust had settled, 
Thacher tried hard to strike out the Dark Blue's 
captain. But with two strikes on him and one 
ball, that youth caught a hook on the tip of his 
bat and arched it nicely out of the in-field just 
v\here no one, lacking wings, could possibh' get 
under it. Captain Lord and McGee both tried 
for il, and Conway came in from right at to|) 
speed; but the ball fell safely to earth, and the 
runner on second took third and was only prc- 
\ented from gC)ing home by quick action on Lord's 
])art. As it was, he scuttled back to his base and 
was glad to reach it again. The Cumbridge cap- 
tain went to second on the first deliver)'. With 
men on third and second and but one out, N'ortli 
Bank's chance to pull out safely looked \ er\- dim. 
But when, a few minutes later, the next balsman 
had hit weakly to short-stop, and Jackson, after 
holding the runners, delivered the ball to Lord in 
the ni< k of lime, the home team's slock advanced 
many points. And presently the suspense was 
o\er, for, after knocking two fouls into the right- 
field stand, the Cumbridge first baseman dro\e 
the ball straight at Lord's head, and Pop, more 
than half in self-defense, put up his hands and, 
I'ortunalely for North Bank, it stuck there! 

"Another tie game!" was the prediction of 
many in the stands as the teams changed places 

for the last half of the ninth inning. But on the 
North Bank bench that belief did n't hold. "Go 
after them, fellows," said Captain Lord, earnestly. 
And, "Let 's take this game now," said the 
coach, quietly. "Don't let him fool you, boys. 
Make him pitch to you. You know what to do, 
Conway. Let 's have it!" 

"Conway u]i!" called Birkenside. "McGce on 
deck! Smash it. Dud!" 

Yet, although Conway t\\ice tried his hardest 
to lay down a bunt that would allow his fast legs 
to take him to first ahead of the throw, he failed; 
and with two strikes and two balls against him. 
the best he could do was a weak grounder that 
was easily fielded by third baseman and (x-gged 
to first well ahead of the batsman. The North 
Bank cheers, which had dwindled away with the 
cheerers' trust in Dud, began again as McGee 
strode to the plate. But McGee repeated Con- 
way's fizzle with the first pitched ball! Again 
third pegged unhurriedly to first for the out. 
Cumbridge \elled, wildly and triumphanlK-. 
Many less interested spectators were alreadv- 
dribbling toward the gate, sensing an exira-iim- 
ing contest that would drag along interminabK- 
without a decision. But North Bank was cheer- 
ing again now, undisma>edly, c\en with a new 
note of fervor; not only cheering, but chanting! 
And the chant was this: 

"Benson! Benson! Three-Base Benson! Ben- 
son! Benson! Three-Base Benson!" 

"If he can deliver one of those wallops of his," 
muttered Lord, hopefulK', to Coach Keegan, "and 
get to third, I 'II bet Hartle>' can bring him the 
rest of the way!" 

"He will, I guess, if that pitcher will give him a 
chance," was the reply. "If he knows his busi- 
ness, though, he will pass him, as he ilid before." 

But with two out, the bases cmpl\ , and a lired 
arm at his side, Thorogood shook his head al llie 
catcher's signal for a throw-out. He wanted to 
end the inning. He did n't belie\e altogether in 
Benson's ability as a hard hitter and felt fairly 
certain that, if he could n't dispose of him on 
strikes, he could make his hit a fl\' to the out-fii-ld. 

Jerry, e\ing Thorogood anxiously, heaved a 
great sigh of relief as the first deli\er\\ instead of 
passing wide nf the jilate, developed into a drop. 
In fait, he was so reliexed that he did n't e\en 
offer at it, nor show surprise or resentmenl when 
the umpire called it a strike. Instead, he griimed 
.slightly, with his eyes more than his mouth, took 
a firmer grip on his bat, spread his legs by another 
inch, and waited. The cheers from the right- 
field stand were continuous — designed, I fear, as 
much to discourage the jjiicher as to encourage 

.\niitlur deli\'er\' went past. llii> time a p.d- 



liable ball, wide of the plate. Then Thorogood 
tried another drop. It had worked before, so 
why not again? Jerry watched the wind-up, 
watched the ball start from the pitcher's hand, 
watched it speed toward him like a gray-wiiitc 
streak, watched it — no, he did n't watrii it after 
that, for he had dropped 
his bat and was racing 
to first! 

About him arose a 
thunder of shrill pffans 
of joy that, as he swimg 
around first, dwindled to 
something a]iproaching 
silence. But in another 
instant the shouting grew 
again; for far out on the 
green expanse of sunlit 
turf, center-fielder and 
right-tielder had turned 
and were running back 
as fast as their legs 
would carry them! And 
around the bases went 
Jeriy, past second and on 
to third, and would haM' 
stopped there in coni- 
lorinit)' to long custom not Jackson waved 
and shouted him onward. 

"Go on. Jerry!" roared 
Andy. "Go on. yoii idiol'. 
Il 's u homc-ri(n!" 

Some three and a half 
hours later, Po]i Lord 
arose at his place beside 
the banquet board and 
held a glass aloft. The\ 
had eaten and sung and 
cheered and eaten more, 
those twent\' hajipy ban- 
([ueters, and now, replete 
and conifortalil>- wear}-, 
they had demanded a 
speech from the retiring 

"Fellows," responded 
Pop, "and Coach Keegan, 

I 'm a heap too tired to make a speech. I would 
if I could, but you '11 just luue to me, I 
guess. All I 'vc got to say is this: I 'm mighty 
happy. And I 'm mighty grateful to you fellows, 
each and e\er\' one of you, for the way you 'vc 
Worked with me to make this evening one of the 

jolliest of my short life. And to our coach for the 
wa>' he 's toiled with us and kept his temper many 
times when he might have let go with no blame 
to him! And — and to one other. So here 's to 
Three-Base Benson — " He stopped short in his 
burst of oratorv and shook his head. 


"Hold on! That won't do! To Ilnnic-Rnii 
Benson, the pinrh-hiltcr with the pinuh! Let 's 
hear il!" 

And he did hear it. And so did Jerry, who, 
although sliorn of his title, looked strangely con- 
IciU and hap[)y. 



"Tell her not to come," said Barbara, in so 
decisi\e a tone that her mother looked up in 
surprise from the letter she had just road aloud. 

"Not come! Your cousin!" 

"Two or three times removed." 

"But her mother and I grew up next door to 
each other. I don't believe you half heard Cou- 
sin Mary's letter. Her husband must go to a 
sanitorium for a month. Naturally, she vnW go 
with him, and naturally she thought of sending 
Joan, or Jo-aw — I never can remember how to 
pronounce the child's name— here." 

"I don't see why we ha\'e to have a distant 
relative — particularly one we don't know well 
enough to call by her right name — stay a whole 
month with us." 

"Barbara Bennett, what an inhospitable speech ! 
You always lo\'e compan\'. \Vh\- don't you want 
your cousin, child?" 

"She '11 be bored to death and hate it and us, 
and then 1 shall hate her. She 's li\ ed in Europe 
most of her life, been e\'en"\vhere and done every- 
thing there is to do, and still she 's only eighteen. 
What could I do with her?" 

"You need n't do anything. Her mother wants 
her to rest after a ^■er^' gay winter in London, she 

"If she needs rest, she 'd better go to the sani- 
torium too." 

"She is n't ill. She simply needs a quiet 
coimtr\' life for a while." 

"She 'II get it in Bromfield. There can't be a 
quieter town in Massachusetts." 

"You had lots of good times here last summer." 

"I did. Mother, but she 's different. Imagine 
taking her to a dance at the inn when she 's used 
to balls, perhaps in castles. And can you see 
her dancing with boys of si.\teen or seventeen, 
when she 's had princes for partners?" 

"You 're a horrid little snob, Barbara. I 
neither understand nor like your attitude. The 
only thing that matters is that an old friend has 
asked my help. I shall send a letter to Mary at 

Mrs. Bennett went to write, \cry much dis- 
turbed by what seemed to her a strange new 
"streak" in her sixteen-year-old daughter. She 
did not know that Barbara's irritation was due 
not so much to the proposed \isit as to another 

Barbara had just graduated from the town 
academy with first honors. She had been vice- 
president of her class, editor of the school paper. 

and tennis champion. She wanted to go to 
college — yearned to go as only a girl of sixteen 
can yearn, with room in her mind and heart for no 
other feeling. Yet she knew it was impossible. 
College required money, which Mrs. Bennett, a 
widow with a small pro]iert\'. could pro\ide only 
by selling the house in which they lived and 
which had been the home of Bennetts since the 
end of the seventeenth centur>-. Therefore, Bar- 
bara never mentioned college to her mother, lest 
she propose to sacrifice the place which held all 
her dearest memories. Mrs. Bennett knew onh' 
that Barbara planned to teach, preparing at a 
normal school in a neighboring town. The long- 
ing to go to college, howe^"er. persisted like a dull 
ache in Barbara's heart. It was not surprising 
that she vented her feeling at the first excuse. 

When, a few weeks later, Joan arrived, Barbara 
met her at the little old vine-covered station. 

"She '11 wear French hats and French heels and 
talk with an accent," Barbara said to herself, as 
she stalked up and down the platform. "And 
everj- other sentence she 'II say. 'When my father 
was ambassador to Spain'; or, 'The last time I 
was in Constantinople.' She '11 have to be enter- 
tained ever^' minute, though I have n't the ghost 
of an idea how I 'm going to do it." 

In .spite of her doleful anticipations, Barbara 
felt a thrill of pride as she caught sight of the girl 
who, she knew, must be Joan. She had the 
delicate, fluctuating color that often accompanies 
auburn hair, and a smile that seemed to crinkle 
her whole face with pleasure. While Barbara 
saw only that Joan's suit and hat were simple and 
becoming, a more experienced obser\er would 
have perceived the perfection of material and 

Joan ran straight to Barbara and threw her 
arms around her. 

"It 's wonderful to sec 'home folks' after all 
these years!" she cried. 

\\"hen Barbara asked for baggage-checks, Joan 
gave her one, pointing out a small steamer-trunk 
in the truck-load left by the departing train. 

.'\t Barbara's glance of surprise. Joan asked, 
"What 's the matter?" 

"I thought you 'd have several trunks," an- 
swered Barbara. 

"Oh, -should I?" The older girl looked dis- 
turbed. "Mother counted on Bromfield being the 
quiet town she used to know. 1 '11 send for more 
things if you think I 'd better." 

"Bromfield has n't changed. Your mother was 




rijilu in thinking \oli would n't ha\e much cluiuco 
to wear good clothes here." 

Joan started to explain. ''It 's not that; we 
alwa^'s tra\-el as light as possible." Meanwhile, 
she was thinking, "What an ungracious person my 
>oung cousin is!" 

Barbara was thinking, too. "It 's perfectly 

carvc-d [lanel o\er the door of the ]jarsonage. 

"She 's putting that on," thought Barbara. 
"She can't make me believe she likes these com- 
mon old houses when she 's seen ever>' big city 
in Europe." 

The exjaression on Joan's face, howes'er, was 
certainly not "put on," as she stood in front of 



liurrid of her to twit us the first thing with living 
in a little out-of-the-way town." Even as she 
thouglit this, she knew she was not being fair. 
She was doing that easiest thing in the world, 
manufacturing motives for other people's words. 
As the>- started down the main street of Brom- 
field, arched above with ancient elms, Joan 
stopped with an exclamation of delight. Through 
the trees she caught glimpses of well-built and 
well-placed houses, giving that atmosphere of 
comfort and quiet dignity characteristic of the 
earlier Xew England towns. She insisted on a 
criss-cross path up the street, in order that she 
might iia\'e a closer \-iew of a colonial doorwa\' 
or a brick-pathed garden. Joan seemed to Bar- 
bara ridiculously pleased to discover the hand- 

own house, with its beautifully pro- 
wliite pillars, wide ])orch, and green 


"To think of living in such a place all one's 
life!" she said softly. "The house itself would be 
a rebuke to anything not fine or kindly. Don't 
>'ou love it, Barbara?" 

"Of course," answered Barbara, less fluent than 
Joan. She was thinking with relief that, by 
never mentioning college to her mother, she had 
never caused her to consider selling the old place. 

By supper-time, Joan and Barbara had chat- 
tered about a inultiialicity of subjects, but Joan 
had not mentioned the last time she was in Con- 
stantinople nor her father's jusdy famous diplo- 
matic career. Instead, she had shown an eager 


MAM 1 A( riki;i) MOTIX'ES 


intcrcsl in ilit- dc-tails of Barbara's own school-girl 
life and the hoys and girls she was about to meet. 

Suddenly Barbara, condensing a coasting acci- 
dent into a single sentence, said abruptly, "You 
would n't be interested — you '\e probably been 
coasting in Switzerland." 

"I have, but — " began Joan. 

Unfortunately, the tinkle of a siUer bell an- 
nounced supper before she could express the 
bewilderment she felt at Barbara's tone. In her 
own room that night, she wrote: 

Mother dear, if it were n't for Cousin Ellen, who 
really seems glad to have your daughter here. I shouUl 
be tempted to take the quickest train back to you. My 
cousin Barbara does not like nic. She may remember 
that the last time we met, — she was five and I was 
seven. — I slapped her. Do you suppose she 'd feel more 
kindly toward me if I let her slap me now to even the 
score? She is perfectly polite and hospitably solicitous 
as to the number of towels on my rack, but the fact re- 
mains. — difficult as it will be for you to comprehend, — 
she does not like me. I 'd feel more disturbed if 1 could 
think of anything I 'd said or done in the half-day I 've 
been here, but so far I 've used my very best comp'ny 
manners. A thought! Did you. by any chance, with 
your maternal prejudice, make me out to Cousin Ellen 
such a paragon as an\' normal girl would inevitably des- 
pise in advance? Did you do that. Misguided Parent? 
Well, it won't take long to correct such an impression 
if you did ! 

Meanwhile, Barbara was talking with her 
mother about their guest. Mrs. Bennett de- 
clared herself delighted with the girl, her poise, 
adaptability, and sincerity. 

"Who would n't have poise," demanded Bar- 
bara, "with all her chances to get it? And I 
don't see \vh\- >ou say she 's sincere. She 's 
pretending all the time, just to be pleasant and 
make a good impression." 

"Do you think you are justified in making such 
a remark?" asked Mrs. Bennett, quietly. 

"Well, she kept me talking an hour this after- 
noon about school and the girls and what we do 
for amusement in the winter. She led me on 
with questions as if she were really interested." 

"Why should n't she be interested?" 

"Now, Mother, you know as well as I do. I 
did n't realize what a fool I was making of nuself 
until the supper-bell rang." 

"Barbara, I thought >ou jirided yourself on 
being fair. Voti 're not giving Joan even llu' 
benefit of the doubt. Vou have no right to sup- 
]X)se she means anything but what she says. I 
am tempted to follow your own example and read 
into your words motives I should Ix' very sorry 
to find there — injustice and envy of other people's 
good forttme. " 

Barbara tltishcd. "You 11 see I 'm right before 
she has been here very long." 

During the first week of Joan's \isit, Barbara 
fouglu a battle between her stuliborn delermiiia- 

lion to stick to the point of view she had adopted 
before she saw Joan, and the sense of fairness 
which she ordinariK' possessed. Joan soon won 
Barbara's resjiect, at least, b>' defeating her, the 
amateur champion of Bromfield, at tennis. 
Barbara's friends, too, "fell for Joan strong," as 
Tom Elder put it. Still there remained a reser- 
vation in Barbara's mind. She could not quite 
believe that Joan was having as good a time as she 
said, that she was not constantly comparing the 
simple amusements of Bromfield with the gaiety 
of foreign cities, and the bo>s and girls, who were 
just ready for college, with the young diplomats 
and noted people she had known abroad. Joan 
never \olunteered any information about these 
personages, though she was \erN- willing to 
answer the questions of the eager young Brom- 

It was Joan, indeed, who started an "Explorers' 
Club" in Bromfield. the purpose of which was 
"traveling at home." Joan, thanks to her father, 
a historian b>' avocation, knew more of the historic 
places of Boston and its vicinity than did these 
people who lived less than an hour awa\'. She 
even insisted, in spite of the denial of the Broni- 
fieldians themselves, that their own town must 
be of historical interest. "The houses look so," 
she a\erred, not \er\' logicalK'. To prove her 
])oint, she made each member of a group of young 
people choose a house and report on its history. 
The results surprised e\ery one but Joan. Parents 
and relati\es drew from the farthest recesses of 
their memories tales of Revolutionar\- and Col- 
onial days. One house had Ijeen an important 
link in the "underground railway" for fugitive 
sla\es before the Civil War. Another actually 
possessed a secret cupboard in which a Conti- 
nental ancestor had been hidden for fi\e da\s 
during the British occupation of the town. Bar- 
bara would not believe in the existence of this 
cupboard until she was taken to it. Then, as a 
punishment for her disbelief, she was locked in. 

Meantime, the month of Joan's \ isii was speed- 
ing by. A few da>s before she was to lea\e, siie 
received a letter from her mother telling her that 
the doctors ad\ised her father to remain another 
month at the s:mitorium and try a new treat- 
ment. The letter continued: 

I wish I knew what was best for you, dear. The 
sanitoriiim would be very stupid for you after tlie young 
life at Bromfield. If I did not feci that a little friction 
still existed lietween you and Barbara. I should suggest, 
by all means, that you stay on with Cousin Ellen. 1 
should insist on your boarding now. of course. Cousin 
Ellen would be glad to have you. I feel sure. .\re n't 
you perhaps a little sensitive about Barbara's attitude 
toward you? At any rate. I leave the choice to you. 
Stay or come to us. as you like. Vou need not consider 
us. Vour father is busy with one treatment or another 
all day and I am acting as his nurse. • 

MANlU'WCTUklvl) \li>TI\l,S 


■ktw ' 

'■' '•' I'j «i^ ' i^ ^^SS 



By llie way, if \-ou stay, your lather "would like yoii 
lo tlo sonic "researching" for him. He is much inter- 
ested in what yon have written to lis about the old houses 
ill Bromfield and thinks there may be some entirely 
fresh material in the town for his colonial history. He 
wishes yoti ta ask Cousin Ellen whether she either 
possesses, or remembers hearriig of, old letters, records, 
or papers. If any are available, he would like copies 

One thing more, Joan dear. The more I think of 
your feeling about Barbara, or hers toward you, the 
more I think you are partly to blame for letting it go on. 
When I ask you lo be explicit, you say it is something 'in 
the air,' or 'in her manner.' If it is nothing more 
definite than that, yon ought to be able to overcome it 
by tact or frankness. Is Barbara perhaps a wee bit 
jealous by temperament y Reniember, >'OU have the 
ailvantage of being two >-ears older and of having had a 
much wider experience. 

Ellen and I had such a joyous girlhood in the very 
house in which \-on are staying, I want you to be equally 
happy there. 

Joan, thinking a long umo over the letter, 
realized that she had made no great effort to 
overcome Barbara's antagonism. So nianN' peo- 

ple ran in and out of llie Bennelt home that the 
two girls conld easily a\oi(l any quiet, intimate 
talks \vith each other. Joan, conscience-smitten, 
knew that li\- ii^iiig the tact or frankness her 
mother had suggested she could long ago have 
forced the issue instead of avoiding it. She 
determined, now, before she made her decision 
concerning the remainder of the summer, to have 
a frank talk with Barbara at the first opportunity. 

That opporlunily came immediately. 

When Joan asked Mrs. Bennett whether she 
remembered any early records of the town or 
family, the older woman hesitated. "Why — 
yes, — that is, I think there must be. To tell the 
truth, every spring and autumn I clean two old 
hair trunks full of papers in the attic, but I 
never have time to read them." 

"I know there are some old letters there," de- 
clared Barbara, "because tiie stamjis I cut off 
years ago were the gems of my collection. Let 's 
look, anyway." 




IndtT the caves in llie attic the two girls found 
two brass-bound trunks "full of papers. Many 
were yellow with age, the ink faintly legible. 
Since there seemed to be no order nor arrange- 
ment, the girls plunged in. Barbara's first paper 
proved to be an uncle's commission as captain in 
the Ci\il War. 

"He was to marry Miss Letitia Todd, the little 
old lad>- who lives alone in the big white house on 
Kim Street. She never married. Once a year, 
on his birthday, she comes here to dinner." 

Joan's paper was a puzzle. The ink had faded 
in many places, so that a magnif>'ing glass would 
be necessary to decipher the whole document. 

"It seems to be a will," she told Barbara. 
"Some one seems to have been disinherited for 
loyalty — how queer !" 

"Let me see the names," said Barbara, bending 
eagerlj' over the paper. "I can almost make out 
one. Oh, I know! That was Preserved Taber. 
The Tabers were Mother's line. One of them 
remained loyal to the king at the time of the 
Revolution and no one in the family ever spoke 
10 him again." 

Joan's eyes by this time were shining. She 
had inherited her father's historical imagination. 
She was not at all daunted by the fact that the 
next half-dozen papers the trunk yielded proxed 
to be nothing more interesting than bills and 
deeds of a much later date. 

"Let 's not take them as they come," she sug- 
gested sensibly, "but pick what looks interesting. 
Here is a bunch of letters tied with something 
that looks like ribbon and rattles like paper." 

"That is old-fashioned 'cap ribbon,' " explained 
Barbara, "for the bows on the ladies' caps. 
Mother has a roll that came from England and 
belonged to her great-grandmother. This ma\- 
Ije jiart of the same piece, faded with age." 

Joan puzzled so long over the bunch of letters 
that Barbara grew imjiatient. 

"What is it?" she asked. "You must have 
found something interesting." 

Joan looked up, her eyes bright with e.xcitement. 
"Father won't need an>' more sanitorium when 
he hears about this. These letters w^ere written 
from England by a Massachusetts Bennett who 
went over on business and ajiparently was n'l 
allowed to come back. Just think, Barbara! 
He actually heard Ediuund Burke make his 
speech "On Conciliation with America.' Oh, how 
1 wish 1 could take these letters to Father this \er\' 

Joan laid the bundle down at her side where 
she could pat it frequently for pure joy. As the 
girls went on through the box, they found a 
strange mixture of legal documents, grants, bills, 
diaries, diplomas, school reports, and letters such 

as could nexer have collected had the Bennett 
famih' not li\ed in this same house for generations. 

Barbara, with a literarj- rather than an histori- 
cal imagination, lo\ed the names they found in 
the older papers, Patty Pomero\-, Hepzibah Taber, 
Delight Homer, and several times in different 
generations her own name, Barbara Bennett. 

Joan laid down the last paper with a sigh, after 
their hasty survey. "Father must see these 
things," she said, "but how is he going to do it? 
I could n't copy them in a month of Sundays." 

As she spoke, she was reminded of her mother's 
letter and her own determination to have a talk 
with Barbara. 

"Barbara, " she said, "are you comfortable, 
doubltxl up in that trunk? If you are, I want to 
talk to you." 

Barbara looked surprised. She was aware, and 
of course hurt, that Joan had axoided any such 
talks with her. 

"I '11 be all right when 1 get both feet either in 
or out," she answered. "Xow go ahead." 

Joan tried to choose the right words. "Well — - 
it 's like this. Mother writes that Father must 
stay another month in the sanitorium. She 'd 
like to ha\e me stay here and board with you if 
>our Mother is willing, and I 'd like to stay if — 
>ou — are willing. I — I '\e seen — well, I know 
that \ou don't — that there 's something about 
me \(iu don't cjuite approxe of." At Barbara's 
ilush, Joan explained hastih': "I don't mean you 
ha\e n't been perfecth' polite or that you have n't 
given me a perfect!)' wonderful time, but I ha\e 
felt, somehow, that >ou were doing it out of a 
sense of dut>' and that you did n't really like me. 
Won't you tell me what the trouble is?" 

Barbara was thoroughh- ashamed that she had 
allowed a guest to feel as Joan had ob\iously fell. 
^(■t to Joan's frankness, she must answer frankh", 
ami she replied: 

"To tell the exact truth, I don't think it was 
quite nice of >ou to pretend the wa\ \ou '\e done 
here this summer." 

"Pretend?" foan looked as bewildered as she 

"Well, have n't you pretended to like Bromfield 
and the silly, simple things we do here, when all 
the time >ou must have been laughing to >ourself 
because we had n't done anything nor been any- 
where the wa>- you have?" 

For a moment Joan was ver\' angry. 

"What right had >ou to suppose 1 meant aii)^- 
thing but what I said?" 

Barbara was honest. "Of course I had n't any; 
but — well, it was just plain common sense to 
think our dances and parties and us boys and 
girls were stupid compared to the sort of thing 
vou were used to and the people you had known.' 



Into Joan's mind flashed what her mother had 
said about the "advantage of her wider experi- 
ence." She reahzed that there was not a httic 
envy in Barbara's hostiiit\-, which had not been 
hostile to any impleasant degree, after all, inifair 
as it had been. Joan remembered, too, that her 
mother had said that she herself was to blame for 
not ONercoming that hostilit>-. 

"Barbara." said Joan, "the real truth is that 
I en\A- \on, in.stead of feeling superior." 

"What!" gasped Barbara. 

"I do." went on Joan, "f ein\' >"nii \u\tv life 
here in Bromfield, the 
quiet, serene, orderly 
happiness of it, the — the 
.\nierican-ness of it all. 
I '\'e gone from one part 
ut Europe to another all 
m\' life. I '\e seen inter- 
esting people, to be sure; 
and done all kinds of ex- 
citing things, but almost 
always with foreigners. 
I ha\'e n't grown up with 
.\merican boys and girls. 
\\ hene\"er I learned to 
i-are for an American 
airl. she was always 
plucked away from me, 
in a month or two, to 
go home or to school. 
I 've ne\-er been to school 
where the lessons were 
taught in English. I 've 
Me\'er had a chance to 
do the (ileasant, normal 

things yon take as a matter of course. That s 
why I was so anxious to come here, where Mother 
was a girl and where I could be with you and other 
girls. I 've trul\' and honestly had the best time 
in Bromfield 1 e\"er had in all my life. Do yon 
sec what I mean, Barbara dear?" 

Barbara unfolded herself from the trunk and 
ran over to Joan. 

"I 'm .so ashamed. Joan. 1 ha\c n't been fair 
i>r decent, and the worst of it is, I knew it all the 
time. I 've been doing that dreadful thing Mother 
calls 'manufacturing motives.' You will stay, 
won't you, Joan, and l<-t me start all o\er.^" 

Joan smiled in the wa\' that made bcr 
friends in all i)arts of Enro|ie. 

"Of course I '11 stay. I guess the trouble is 
that your imagination is too acli\e. I '11 prob- 
ably wish I had some of it when I get to college." 

Barbara dropped. Turk fashion, at Joan's 

"Arc \ou going to college.-"" 

"I am if I can get in. I '\e had the ni(i.-.t 

reckless, ridiculous preparation, with a little of 
one school, less of another, mosth- in Switzerland, 
and with what Mother and Father had time to 
teach me on the side. I 've got to spend 'this 
year catching up on things they don't teach 

"I supposed you 'd 'come out' and ne\er think 
of college." 

"I had a taste of that last year in London. It 
was lots of fun, but I 'm like John Quincy Adams. 
Don't you remember, when he was a bo>', he went 
with his father on diplomatic missions to sexeral 


countries in Europe, but when In; was of college 
age, he refused to stay any longer and came home 
to get an American education. That 's what 
I 'm going to do, bitt I feel certain that entrance 
requirements are more difficttlt than they ever 
were in John Quincy's day." 

".■\re n't you lucky!" brealhefl Barl>ai-a. 

"I had n't noticed it," replied Joan. "\\h\', 
look here, you 're going to college, are n't 

"Can't. I ha\c n't the money." 

"But )"ou must go. The girls sa\' you gradu- 
.iti'd with one of the liest records any one e\er 
made at Bromfield Academy." 

"Oh. well, it is n't a very large academy, even if 
it Isold." 

"It 's one of the best pre|)aralory schools in the 
State, Judge Henderson told me." 

As Joan saifl this, a thought Hashed into hei 

"Barbara, how much could your mother actu- 
alK' spare a year to send \ou to college?" 



"Not over a couple of hundred dollars, includ- 
ing clothes and cxcrything. It can't be done. 
I can manage to go to normal school, and that 's 

"Would you mind initting off college for an- 
other year?" asked Joan. 

"Would you mind listening while I talk?" 
replied Barbara. "I Ikuc told you in words of 
one syllable that I can't go to college," 

"Oh, yes, )ou can." Joan's eyes shone with 
excitement at the ])lau developing in her brain. 
"I'ather is going to travel a year for his health. 
1 was going to enter a preparatory school. Wiiy 
should n't I go, instead, to Bromfield Academy 
and board with your mother?" 

Joan could sec how much the deprivation of 
college had meant to Barbara bv' the jov' in her 
face as she listened to the other girl's plan. 

"Oh, it would be too wondcrftil !" Barbara 
exclaimed. Her mind leaped ahead to still an- 
otlier ])lan. "I 'm all ready for college now, so 1 
could spend the year vxorking. If I could get 

together enough for two years of college. I could 
manage the others somehow'." 

Joan's eyes rested on the heaps of papers cover- 
ing the floor beside them. 

"Here 's your work!" she cried. 

"Where?" asked the bewildered Barbara. 

"Right here before you. I have helped Father 
enough in his historical work to know that he will 
be perfectlv- mad about this material. He can't 
carry valuable papers with him when he travels. 
These will all have to be sorted and copied — work 
enough to keep jou busy for months. Oh. Bar- 
bara, won't it be fim? Wh)-, what 's the matter?" 

Barbara's face had lost the radiance of her first 

"I was thinking how silh' and stupid and imfair 
I was to \ou, and how splendid vou arc to me!" 

Joan reached o\er and shook Barbara gently by 
the shoulders. 

"Oh, pshaw! that 's all over. I tell you what 
1 11 do — if I find you manufacturing any more 
motives, 1 '11 strangle \uiu' imagination." 






They made me into a Mav- queen. 

And put a crown on my Lead. 
But Jack said he'd much rather 

Play President " instead . 

And the other childrea went away 
To d'ather some more flowers ; 
So I nad no one to reign over 
In this free land of ours . 







Iheodore, aged six, was standing bencalh a 
cherry-tree front which he had just: descended. 
He brought with him a chister of hiscioiis fruit 
,ind a hit of interesting information. The former 
he i<c'pt strictly to himself, the latter he gener- 
ously bestowed onus. "I saw a nest in the bushes 
while I was up 'al: ole tree!" he \ohintcorefl, be- 
iwecn biles. 

"What kind of a nest was it, dear?" asked Pal, 
nuich inii)rcssed. 

"Don't call me, 'dear'; I ain't no g-u-r-r-u-l '" 
Then realizing, perhaps, that he had been a liit 
abrupt in his conversation with a lad\', he grinned 
sheepishly and explained: "I think it arc a cal- 
liird. It 's got three blue eggs in it." 

Thanking Theodore for his store of good news, 
,uul extracting from him a solemn promise that 
he would molest neither the eggs nor the nest, we 
left him to his feast of cherries. Then, cameras in 
hand, we approached with due caution the hair- 
lined, grassy cup in the blackberry tangle tliat was 
the home of the catbirds. 

Pal and I always carr\- two cameras with us 
when bird-hunting; one, a long-focus machine for 
nesting scenes, or au)- picture which does not 
reciuirc a greater shutter-speed than i /too of a 
second; the other, with a maximum shutter-speed 
of l/iooo of a second, for action photographs. 

Setting up the long-focus camera, on its tripod 
at the front door of Catbird Villa, we attached 
a slender thread to the shutter-trip, and, carr\ing 
it with us to a distance of several yards, went into 
hiding, there to await the arrival of the feathered 
mistress of the nest. .\ few nioments onlv of 

watchful waiting had elapsed when we discerned 
a slate-gray streak flash through the foliage above 
(he nest and come to rest upon the rim for an 
instant — Madame Catbird had returned! That 
instant was ours; the thread was pulled, gently 
but firmly, and we had our first picture. 

Fearing that the presence of the big camera so 
near her might frighten the brooding bird frnni 
her eggs if we at- 
tempted any more 
portraits at that 
time, we decided 
to defer finther 
work u n til the 
hatching of the 
nestlings. So, after 
procuring a strik- 
ing record of 
Daddy Catbird on 
his way home with 
a fat worm for his 
busy spouse, we 
retired, well con- 

A week slijipcd 
by, and again we 
\isited the grassy 
cup in the black- 
berry tangle. This time, instead of three frag- 
ile blue eggs, a trio of himgry infants con- 
fronted us as we prepared for another picture. 
Just as we had set our impromiitti studio in 
order, the late afternoon sim went to bed behind 
a cloak of ink\- clouds; the light failed utterh'; 



■ ■ : -J 


Ww % * 







■■ 1 SAW A NliST IN THK 




while a rumble of distant thunder heralded an 
approaching shower. Nothing short of a flash- 
light would suffice under these conditions, wc 
knew full well. Fortunately, we had our flash 
apparatus along, and it was soon established be- 
side the camera (with which it ^\'orks synchro- 
nouslv) and the throad- attached. .Xs before, wc 


lay hidden until the mother catbird returned to 
the nest. As she deposited a succulent gruii in 
ihe gaping mouth of her hiuigriest oftspring, again 
the thread was pulled. .\ flare of blinding white 
radiance shot out from the flash-gun, a dull boom 
mimicked the voice of the coming storm, and avc 
had still another addition to our series! 

Thirteen more da\s came and went, and the 
little catbirds had imdergone a wonderful tratis- 
loriTiation. I'Vom naked bain' birds lhe\' had 
I'hanged to fulK' feathered youngsters, with the 
ability' to Hy a little and to eat a great deal. In 
another day. or two at the most, home tie.s would 


be severed — the family scattered for all time. 
If we were to complete the series we coxcted, wc 
must make the most of the present opportunity, 
trusting to catbird niothcr-love to aid us. 


Our first step was to take the \oung birds froiu 
the nest and place them carefully upon a branch 
of elder. Wiiile arranging the little subjects upon 
the overhanging limb, the mother-bird came to 
superintend the job, perching contentedly within 
an inch of Pal's small hand. This was a new 
experience in our dealings with w ild birds, atid we 
^^"ere naturally much elated. 

"Let 's put the kiddies on the camera and .sec 
what hapiiensi" cried Pal, enthusiasticalh'. .A 


inoment later we had .i picture of the mother- 
liird perched ujioti the handle of the caiuera, while 
lur children called to her from the bellows. 

"How about holding those liveb juveniles in 
I he palm of \our hand. Pal? The mother will 
come to them there, I am sure!" was ;»y inspira- 
tion as I increa.sed the shutter-speed of the camera 
to 1, I GOO of a .second — we were expecting swift 
action now! 

"If we can onl\- iurUidc the fond pareiu in tliis 
picture, I fanc\' it will be tlie best thing wc ha\c 

192 1 1 



c\er done!" enthused ni>- companion, ami tlun 
called, "Get read>-; siie 's coming!" 

With my eyes in the mirror, I turned the focus- 
ing-screw in mad haste, and as the image of the 
(\y\ng bird appeared for the small fraction of a 
second, hox'ering o\er Pal's hand, I pressed the 
release, — "Thud!" — and away she went without 
deli\ering the juic>- cherry- she carried in her 
beak. Settling on the ground near by, she im- 
mediately prejjared to try again. I changed 
plate-holders at my best speed, and soon had 
another thrilling chance, which resulled also in 
a unique picture. 

Upon her third trip, the mother alighted in such 
a curious manner that while one baby got the 


cherry in his mouth, as per request, another 
recei\'ed his mother's claw, which was n't laaiK 
>o palatable, of course. Howe\er, accidents uill 
happen in the best regulated families. 

"It would be great fun to have a jjicture show- 
ing mother catbird lea\ing the studio. Will you 
try for that pose ne.Kt time?" 

"Anything to oblige," I answered confidently, 
changing plate-holders once again. 

The feat accomplished, a soap box was found 
as a seat for Pal and the subjects again transferred 
— this time to the instep of her out-thrust shoe. 

Ha\-ing onl\- two plates left, we meant to show 
"something on foot" at the end. 

There is no doubt about Mother Catbird being 
a skilled bird-woman, but there is just one little 
stunt she cannot perform — namely, make a per- 
fect landing on a crowded field. She deposited 


her cargo correctly, it is true, but behold how 
liadly she buinped the spectators! 

"One more plate — what shall the jncture be.^" 
1 asked. 

"I have it!" — this from Pal, after a moment's 
thought, and with great joyousness. "As a per- 
tecth- fitting finale to this memorable series of 
wild-life portraits, we will have a picture ol 
Mother Catbird perched on the \er\- iieak of un- 
shoe, from which jjoint of \-antage she shall lecture 
her little ones upon the dangers of o\er-eating. 
The way those kids ha\-e been consuming cherries, 
stones and all, this morning, calls for just such a 
proceeding if indigestion is to be pre\ented." 
And so the camera made its last exposure. 

Not being familiar with the catbird language, 
we cannot \ouch for the fact that the matter 
in question was brought before the meeting at 
this final conference. Whatever subject was 
acted upon, however, it received the approval 
of a majority, despite one violently dissenting 
\ote — the picture shows it all \ery clearly. 





I'rlu Bowers stood ia ihc open door of ihe 
power-house, gaziiit; aiixioLisK- down the road. 
The Hghts were jiisl coming on in the six villages 
ser\'ed by the plant and tiie water-wheel go\er- 
nor was gradualU- opening the gates of the turbine 
a little wider to take care of the increased load. 

"It takes him a long time," he said to Jed 
Walker, an apprentice he was breaking in. "1 
wish I were home." 

"What 's the matter with your father?" asked 
Jed, sympathetically. "I mean, what does the 
doctor think ails him?" 

"He won't say," said Fred, gloomily; "just 
looks at him and goes home. I 'm going to hold 
him up and make him tell to-night." 

"I wish I felt a little surer of myself," said Jed. 
"You could go home, but I 'm a little scary about 
the place when the load is coming on." 

Fred reassured him. "Ne\-er mind, I 'II catch 
the doctor as he goes by and make him tell me." 

Accordingly, he ran out bareheaded, a moment 
later, and talked earnestly with the doctor. Jed 
watched him as he came slowK- back down the 
steep path to the plant. 

"What did he say?" he asked, before Fred 
reached the door. 

"Nervous prostration," said Fred, briefl\ . 
sitting disconsolately down at the desk and drum- 
ming with liis fingers. "No excitement, no talk 
about business or the plant, just quiet and com- 
plete rest is what he needs." 

"How long?" asked Jed. "* 

I'red sagged his chin do\m on his hands. "Don't 
know. Two months an\\vay, ma>be more." 

Jed tried to be comforting. "We can take care 
of it all right. Wc '11 just keep the place up fmo 
and dandy — not let him he»r a thing about it, and 
he '11 be all right." 

"We can try." Fred drew a long breath. 
"Tlu- onl>- trouble is that you 've been here onl\- 
two months." 

"I started and stopped the jilace for two 
weeks," announced Jed, pronidK'. "Your father 
never found a word of fault, and that 's sa\ing a 
good deal, for Noti know how he 's been lately." 

"That 's good," said Fred, absently. 

"I lined up the in,side of the water-wheel last 
Sattirday," continued Jed, iniport;uitly. "It was 
out of line to beat all." 

"Fine!" said Fred; "that s good. But 1 'II 
ifll >-ou, Jed, this being able to start and stop the 
plant and do all these odd ihores is a long way 
from being able to run the vhole thing." 

"What else do \ou do? Your father said I was 
doing hue and went awa\- lots of times and left 
me alone." 

"You are doing fine," said Fred, approvingly; 
">ou learn quickly and get along splendidly; but 
there 're so many things besides that. Yoti have to 

'■■when you ve got into TROUDLE .A.ND THEN OLT 



learn to keep your head in an emergency — you 
ha\e to learn how to think and act ciuickly." 

"What do you inean?" asked Jed, w-onderingK . 
".Ml you do is to start tip and run and keep 

Fred made a gesture of imi)atience. "I-2very 
soldier lias to lia\e a baptism of fire — -ex'ery 
power-house man has to have things happen to 
him before he 's safe and sure. I '\e been through 
it and I know." 

"How are you going \o arrange the shifts.-'" 

"I '11 jnil the night-man on daytimes, and 1 'II 
sleep here, so as to be handy if you get iiiiu 
trouble at night." 

Jed swelled out his chest iierceptibly. "I 'II 
have the night run, will 1?" 

Fred nodded, and smiled inwardly. lie could 
remember how important he had felt over being 
in full charge. 

"I wonder — " Jed flushed a little and hesitated. 




" — I wonder if \vc could Iwvc a llasli-liijht inctiire 
of the place?" 

"Don't need to; we 'vc already got pictures of 
the plant." 

"I mean with nic running it," stanuncrcd Jed. 
"I 'd like to send Mother one." 

"Fred slapped him on the back and laughed. 
"When you 've won your spurs, — when >ou 've 
got into trouble and then out again, — you can 
call yourself a power-house man and have \our 
picture taken with your hand on the bare copper 
wires — Jove def\ing the lightning." 

The exening dragged slowK- h\-. The two 
loafed around the place, read some old magazines 
b\' snatches, and walked restlessly up and down 
the floor. 

"I don't mind night runs after ten or half past," 
said Jed, "but before that I keep thinking of 
what the boys are doing. It 's awful wiien there 's 
a basket-ball game on." 

"People never think of the power-house man," 
replied Fred. "Whenever they get up in the 
night they switch on the light just as if it were 
water, always on tap. They don't think of the 
long hours we put in, walking up and down in 
front of the switchboard, se\'en nights e\"ery 

"How is the pulp-mill running?" inquired Jed. 

"Dandy, when we are hitched up with the 
Morris plant; but when we have them alone, the>' 
just about stall us when they start their big 
motor, the one they grind pulp with." 

"How do yon get along with the Morris plant 
— how do you tell how much load they ha\e?" 

"You see, it is this way." Fred had explained 
it a dozen times, but patiently went over the 
arrangement again. "They are ten miles away, 
down the river at rlie big falls, but it 's just the 
same as if they were right here in the room. 
Whichever one of us wants to, can 'phase in' on 
the other. That is, we can start our machines 
and when they are riutning at exactly the same 
speed and about the same \oltage, we can throw 
in our circuit-breakers and they stay in. If we 
are running slower or faster, it 's just the same as 
a short circuit, and our switch flies out." 

"It 's luighty funny the way that sxnchronizing 
instriunent works," said Jed, ga/ing at it. "Which 
way did you say the hands revoKe when this 
machine is too fast?" 

"Toward the side marked fast. See there, 

"Oh, yes, I see," said Jed, confidently. "You 
])nt in this plug and that connects U|i each ma- 
chine >ou are trying to put together; one each side 
of the instrument— it 's easy as falling off a log." 

".•\fler you get the two machines together," 
Fred went on, "thev are locked eleclricallv. Then 

>ou can shut off the water, if \'ou want lo, and 
run this generator as a motor." 

Jed groaned. "Oh, gee! Just as soon as you 
get one lot of things learned, there 's a lot more. 
Who would uvDit to rim it as a motor, anyway? 
Let 's have a game of dominoes!" 

"You 'd better get out >"our text-books and 
study up on synchronizing and a lot of other 
things. I 'm going to bed." And Fred started 
for the loft. 

He lay down with a sigh of relief. He dared 
not leave the place an instant at night; he must 
stay on the job from six in the evening till six tlie 
next morning. Jed was all right when there was 
no trouble; but let anything happen, and a more 
experienced hand was necessary. 

The regular night-man must take the day run, 
as they had lately connected up with a plant ten 
miles away to help carry the tremendous load 
thrown on them by the new pulp-mill — over fifteen 
hundred horse-power. It took eternal \igilance 
to keep the two plants adjusted properK'. each 
with it's proper share — a task utterly bexond 
Jed's modest store of knowledge. 

The rumble of the plant in the room below 
gradually faded awa>' and Fred slept. Suddenly 
he was dragged half out on the floor! 

"Come quick! The Morris plant is in trouble! 
The night-man down there is half crazy, calling 
me up every minute!" 

Fred struggled into his clothes and ran down 

"What 's the rip?" 

"His water-wheel is running away," shouted 
Jed. "He called up and said he could n't shut 
the water-wheel ofT — something in the gates!" 

"What have you done?" Fred flashed a light- 
ning glance o\'er the switchboard. 

"Nothing! Not a thing! What can I do?" 

"Keep your head, for one thing," snapped Fred. 
"We '11 give him our load to help hold him." 

"I tried to, but look there!" Jed pointed to 
the synchronizing instrmnent. "I put in the 
plug to hitch up with him, and look at that!" 

The single hand, which ought to stand upright 
on the figure zero when each machine was exactly 
the same speed, was a dim blur as it .sped to the 
left, or coLuUer clock-wise. 

Fred gasped. "Holy smoke! He 's running at 
double his regular speed." 

He speeded up his own water-wheel from nine 
hundred revolutions a minute to twelve hundred. 
The lights flamed up intensely bright. 

"Not fast enough!" he shouted to Jed. "Call 
up the pulp-mill!" 

"Nobody there biu the uiglu-watchman !" 
yelled Jed. 

"Call him quick .ind icll him lo start exery 




motor on the place. It '11 help, even if they do 
run idle." 

Jed did so, and a few moments later the load 
commenced to increase. "Now tell the Morris 
man to screw up his circuit-breakers so they can't 


lly out, and shut his head-gates as fast as he can. 
We 've got to do the rest." 

Then he glanced at his instruments, and, noting 
that he had on over three hundred more horse- 
power of load, sped up the great turbine. 

The usual high-pitched note of the generators 
increased to a roar. Dust tlcw from them and the 
lloor shook. The speed-indicator showed twelve 
hundred, then fourteen, and finally sixteen hun- 
dred re\-oliitions a minute before there was an>- 
chance to get in on the other circuit. Fred's face 
turned an ashy gray. The runaway speed — that 
is. the extreme safe speed-limit for the genera- 

tors — was fifteen hundred re\olutions a niinutc. 
They were running a hundred oxer and were 
liable to explode any moment in their wild race. 
Suddenly he threw in the connecting switch with 
a bang! The hand had stood on the zero mark 
for the fraction of a sec- 
ond. The switch held, 
and he leaped to the 
water-wheel governor 
and commenced to give 
the load over to the Mor- 
ris plant. If he threw it 
on suddenly, some of the 
switches might fly out. 
If he was not quick 
enough, the tremendous 
speed or the high %ollage 
might wreck one plant 
oi the other. Little b\' 
little he gingerly shut 
his water-wheel gates. 
Little b\' little the speed 
_^^^ slackened. In a few sec 

N "^"B?^ Ujf/P onds he had the water 

jJ . '^ . ' I r - ''" *'^"'^ °'^ ''"'^ '^^d ^'"^' 
entire load, with the gen- 
erator added, running as 
a motor on the runawax- 
plant. Still the speed 
was terrific — over three 
hundred revolutions u 
minute above normal. 

Jed rushed from the 
iclephoiic; "The night- 
watch at the pulp-mill 
says he 's going to pull 
his switches — his motors 
are tearing ihemseKes to 

Fred turned, aghast. 
'Tell him if he does, he 
won't ha\e an\' more 
liower — we '11 all blow up 
here. Tell him to give 
us all the load he can!" 
He leaped to the water-wheel with an oil-can. 
.\ thin thread of smoke was curling up from the 
bearings at each end. He jioured a quart of oil 
into each one, but it only seemed to add fuel to 
the flame. "Hey!" he yelled to Jed, who ran out 
of the telephone booth and stared at the smok- 
ing bearings. "\\"e 've got to do something, 
quick! Help me get in one of those eight by 

"What on earth — " began Jed. 
"No talk!" shouted Fred, rumiing outside. 
Jed found him tugging on a square timber sixteen 
feet long that lay beside the building. "Take il 




inside!" he gasped. "We 'II take a pry on one of 
the couplings — put a brai<e on it!" 

They carried it as easily as il it were a match, 
although ordinarily the)' could hardly lift it. 

"Now get that big block o\er here to pry on!" 
shouted Fred, running as he spoke. Together 
they placed the heavy block alongside the whirl- 
ing shaft and gingerl\- adjusted their huge lever 
on one of the flange couplings that bolted the 
generator to the water-wheel. It was indeed time 
they were doing something ! The whole building 
shook violently. The lights flamed dazzling white, 
the voltage a third higher than usual. Even.- 
bearing was smoking hot and one was blazing. 

"Eas>' now!" warned Fred. The>' pressed the 
end of the stick gently up under the spinning 
coupling, which was some sixteen inches in diam- 
eter and about five inches thick, and consisted of 
two polished steel disks bolted together, with a 
smooth outer rim. 

For a moment it had no effect whatever. They 
bore down a little harder, and the smoke curled up 
as the steel disk started to bury itself in the wood. 

"Now!" yelled Fred. "Your whole weight — 
down \vith it ! Break it down!" Instantly a flame 
sprung from the wood as the spinning-disk 
buried itself, but the friction on nearly a half 
of the coupling told. The water-wheel slowed 
down to normal speed. 

"Now back out to the end of the stick and sit 
on it!" shouted Fred. "I '11 cool loearings." 

Running from one to another, he poured in oil, 
a pailful at a time. The smoke spouted from the 
improvised brake, filling the room so full that 
the lights hardly showed through it. 

"I can't stand this much longer!" exclaimed Jed. 

"You 've got to," Fred retorted. Even as he 
spoke the lights dimmed and the speed slackened. 

"Take it off!" shouted Fred, pushing Jed away 
and throwing the timber to the floor. He turned 
the water into the wheel-case and the lights 

"Pull off the pulp-mill as quick as you can." 
he directed. "The Morris man has got the head- 
gates on his dam shut — see that watt-meter? \Vc 
're taking his plant on as a motor." 

When Jed came out of the telephone booth he 
was trembling all over. His face was the color 
of jjutty and his knees shook. "The Morris man 
said that he had the head-gate shut," he said. 

Fred considerateU' kept his back to him while 
he dropped off the Morris plant and oiled the 
bearings two or three times apiece. 

Jed finally breathed easier and his color came 
back. "A little ner\ous?" asked Fred. 

"Well, a little," admitted Jed. "I thought two 
or three times the Morris plant would ha\c to go." 

"I never thought so at all," said P'red. "All we 
had to do was to keep our heads and hustle. I '11 
sleep a few minutes now; if the place starts to fall 
to pieces, why wake me up again." 

.•\s Fred came down from the loft the next 
morning, Jed announced: 

"I '\e got those bearings running cool again. 
Doctor Jaynes called up and said we burned up 
ail the lamps in his office." 

"We '11 hear a lot of that, but let the .Morris 
plant replace them — they 're out of it cheap." 
He grinned a little. "When I was a little boy, 
Mother got me a dandy book, 'Jack the Giant 
Killer,' I 've got it yet. I remember in the fights 
Jack always came out ahead, standing with one 
foot on the dead giant and waxing his sword. 
Now in this picture >ou want to send xoui" mother, 
\ou could stand with one foot on the water-wheel 
and the other on the framework of the switch- 
board; the>' 're a good ways apart, but I guess >'ou 
can make it. I '11 take the handle ofT the circuil- 
breaker for you to wave. We '11 name it 'lack the 

"Aw, quit it!" Jed blushed clear around 
behind his ears. "I 'm going to get at that 
studying — just going right after it for fair. 1 'm 
nothing but a starter and a stopper." 



Each spring they come with gentle blush 

Like fairies in the night. 
Decking the dark and scraggy boughs 

In bloom of beauty bright. 

With scent of rarest, sweet perfume, 
Thev call the bus%- bees 

To labor from the dawn till dusk 
.•\mong the apple-trees. 

Short be their days of sunny life, 
Until, like flakes of snow. 

They flutter to the kindly earth, 
.And then the apples grow! 



Copyright. 1921. by Oliver llerford 

#-*ps^. ?-^ 


A (,'row once stole a piece of cheese, 
And, to enjoy it at her ease. 
Flew to the top of a high tree. 
A Fox who, passing, chanced to see, 
Resolved to exercise his wit 
And win from her the dainty bit 
That in her beak she held so tight. 
"My dear," said he, with smile polite, 
"I never was aware till now 

How perfect is \our form, nor how 

Superb \our plnmagc. Had your voice 

An equal charm, 1 should rejoice 

To hear you sing!" At that the Crow, 

Parting her beak to sing, let go 

The piece of cheese, and saw her prize 

Snapped up before her ^■cry ejes, 

-And heard the I'ox's parting jeer — 

"Don't trouble now to caw. mv dear!" 


A SELFISH Dog used for his bed 
The manger where the oxen fed; 
And while he could not cat the hay 
Himself, b>' growling dro\'c away 
The hungry oxen. Now, although 
That Dog died centuries ago, 

His evil name will nc\er be 
Forgotten. For when people see 
Such selfishness as his, they sa>'. 
"Dog in the manger," to this da\-. 
And of such creatures there are more 
That go on two legs than on four. 





The Wind and Sun once fell into 
A heated argument, which grew 
Each da>- more bitter. Wind and 

Each claimed to be the stronger one. 
Finding that neither one wovild 

Tiie least concession, for the sake 
Of peace, the two agrec-d at length 
Upon a trial of their strength. 
"You see that Tra\eler," said the 

"On yonder road? which ever one 
The sooner forces him to strip 
His cloak off, wins the champion- 
The Wind, rejoicing in a fight. 
Sprang up and blew with all his 

Quite confident that he would win. 
But very soon, to his chagrin, 
1 le found the harder that he blew. 
The Traveler more tightly drew 
His cloak about him. One last puff 
He gave, then shouted in a huff; 
"I give it up; it can't be done!" 
Then, with a smile, arose the Sun 
And beamed his brightest on the Man, 
So that he pre.sently began 
To feel his cloak; then bit b>' bil, 
.'\s he grew warmer, loosenetl it. 
At last he threw it off. "Vou win!" 
Exclaimed the Wind. "I now begin 
To see the light! I thought till now 
That everv'thing to force nuist bow; 
But you compel me to admit 
Persuasion has the best of it !" 


Are softer far!" This was too much 
For Pussy. With a flattered "Mew!" 
She reached into the fire and drew 
A chestnut out. The hot coals seared 
Her paw, but Pussy persevered 
Till she had pulled out every one. 
Then turning round to gaze upon 
The chestnuts, found that there was nc 
Just empty shells! All Pussy had 
Were burns and the reflection sad 
That she had singed her paws to feed 
Her folly and the Monkey's greed. 




A MoN'KHY and a Cat one tla\' 

Were sitting by the lu-artl], 
where la\' 

Some chestnuts roasting. "By 
the way," 

Exclaimed the .\]je, "I never 

A Cat with such a perfect paw 

For pulling chestnuts from a 

And though I always did ad- 

Our Master's liands, \ours lo 
the touch 





A Fox who ne\er, slrange to sa\', 

I lad seen ihe King of Beasts, one clay 

Beheld a Lion. At the sight 

He very nearly died of fright. 

The second time he met the King 

He felt a sort of shivering 


Once all the Hares in Hare- 

doni got 
Together to bewail their lot, 
And one and all agreed that 

With being hounded, snared 

and shot, 
And chased and worried, life 

was not 
Worth li\-ing. So, lest worse befall, 
Resolved at once to end it all, 
ThL-\- rushed u]) a steep rock to thro\\ 
TliemseKes into the lake below. 
1 learing them come, the F'rogs beside 
Ihe water's edge, leapt, terrified 
I mo ihe lake. Seeing their fright, 

Sensation u[i and dnwn lii> ^pin^, 

But outwardl)' he showed no sign. 

The third time the\- met face to face,. 

The Fox showed not the slightest trace 

Of fear, but bold as anything 

Walked up and said, "Good morning. King! 

A Hare exclaimed: "Broiher.s, our plight 
Is not so bad. Now we ha\e found 
A folk who fear the \ery sound 
Of our approach, let us," he said, 
"Take courage in the thought that we, 
Tiie scorn of Man and Bird and Beasi, 
Are heroes to the Frogs, at least!" 



A GN.vr, once chancing to alight, 
After a long and weary flight. 
Upon a Bullock's horn to rest. 
With a loud buzzing thus addressed 
The Bullock: "Pray, good Sir, allow 
Me to express my thanks; and now 





If you don't mind, I '11 Wy awa\', 
Unless you 'd rather ha\e nie slay." 
"Pra\' do whatever you decide; 
'T is all the same to me," replietl 
The Bullock; "1 was not aware. 
Until you spoke, that you were there.' 



Author of "Cinderella's Granddaughter" 



The calm of the big pink-and-gray room o\'erlook- 
iiig the park was stirred to unwonted acti\ity. 
\^'aves of silk and chiffon and velvet reared rain- 
bow-colored crests abo\-e couches and chairs; 
white foam of linen and lingerie capped the tables. 
Near the center of the room, two wardrobe trunks 
and a steamer gaped capabK' open. Between 
chairs and tables and couches a small, swift- 
footed woman mo\ed hurriedly, her nerxous ges- 
tures churning the medley to a seemingh- worse 
confusion. A tall gra\'-eyed girl stood by the 
trunks, quietly catching what the little woman 
tossed her and slipping them on the hangers. 

"There! that 's the last dress. Jane, you can put 
these things back. Marie's young man might have 
waited twenty-four hours, I should think. If 
you are invalided home from the American troops 
on the Rhine, there is no special point in being 
married the minute your boat bumps the pier. 
Jane, are there any more shoes in the closet?" 

"I see shoes under the window," interposed the 
quiet girl. 

The little woman whirled about. "\"ou would 
make a good lady's maid. Kit. I had no notion 
>'0ii were so capable. W hy don't you apply for 
Marie's job?" 

"You would n't take me," said the girl, deftly 
folding silk petticoats. "Ever since Aunt Isa- 
belle's telegram came asking )ou to sail with her 
to-morrow for Bermuda, ha\e n't >ou been tr\ing 
lo dispose of me otherwise?" 

"Hut I can't take you, Kit. Xobod\' know show 
long Isabelle may have to stay in fiermuda, if she 
is actualU' sick — though I can't believe what she 
says the doctor sa>s. Isabelle's health has always 
been a Rock of Gibraltar — invulnerable. .And if 
it is n't, don't you see I really could n't take you 
to Bermuda — " 

"Oh, I don't want to go. Mother." The tall 
girl captured a pile of silk stockings and began 
filling a drawer in one of tlio trunks. "Why can't 
I stay here? " 

"I3ccause I should n't feel easy a single minute 
to know you were alone in this house with nobodx' 
but the servants." 

"I should n't mind. But I don't care particu- 
larly about staying. It struck me as the easiest 
way out, that is all." 

"It is no way out." The little woman paused, 

both hands full of laces, like a bird hovering for 
a moment in arrested flight. "Did you send that 
telegram to Aunt Marcia?" 

"Not yet, Mother." 

"Then we may as well stop packing so fever- 
ishl\'. I shall never in the world take this next 

"Oh, 1 think we can make it." 

"But what about you? Here is Don on a ranch 
in Wyoming for the summer and \oiir father's busi- 
ness ma>' keep him two months longer in Alaska. 
Miss Bird's brother's wife is in a sanatorium and 
Miss Bird is taking care of the children. We have 
always counted on her to come here and look af- 
ter >-ou and Don whenever I wanted to be away. 
And now — \\'hy, I can't go, Kitten, until we 
hear from Aunt Marcia." 

"You must go." The girl's fingers were busy 
among the laces. 

"Tell me how, with the Hendersons at the 
shore, the Bixbys in California, and your Uncle 
P-d\vin's house quarantined for scarlet fever. If 
for any reason Aunt Marcia can't ha\e you — " 

"I don't see how there can possibly be any 
reason against her ha\ing me. Mother. We used 
to N'isit at her house nearly e\"ery year when I was 

The little woman hesitated. "She wrote this 
spring to ask when we were coming again. Tele- 
phone a telegram this minute. Puss. There may 
be time for her to answer before my train." 

"There could n't be. Mother. 1 'II do it the 
minute >ou are off. " 

"I will wait for the sleeper. She nia\- not be 
at home, dear. So many people seem not to be 
at home this summer." 

"But, Mother, Great-aunt Marcia is ahva>s at 
home. Did n't I hear Father say once that she 
had n't slept outside that house for twenty years?" 

"So he did. Oh, m}' white slippers! Give them 
to Miss Katherine, Jane, and then take away all 
the things on these chairs. Perhaps Aunt Marcia 
could n't leave home now if .she wished.- Her 
health — It seems safe enough — I will take this 
train after all. Puss. Can you finish here alone?" 

"Easily. .And I 'II call the e\]irossman." 

"Then I will see Mary and John and lea\e 
directions about caring for the place while I am 
gone. Mary must keep one housemaid at hand, 
in case your father comes home suddcnh-. .\sk 
Jane to lay out my things." 

"I 'II get them ready m>'self, Mother." 


KII, r-AT, AM) A I'l.W BOYS 


'llu- little lady clicked awa)' on her ;.alin ^iip- 
|ici>, daintv, brisk, and efficient. Katherinc called 
the express-office, finished packing, locked the 
trunks, and assembled hat, gloves, and shoes in 
the dressing-room. She was stocking a gray- 
leather writing-case with paper and stamps when 
her mother came back. 

"Here is \oiir letter of credit. The\- just sent it 
up from the bank." 

"Good." The little woman darted across the 
room to a rosewood desk. "How much nionc>' 
have you. Kit.'' ' 

"Not much. 1 nc\er ha\e at the cud of the 

"Here is fifty. Your allowance will be paid as 
usual, of course. If \ou need more, write Judge 
Howe. I called up Grace Lansing and inxited her 
to dinner. She will spend the night, too. Ask 
any of the girls >ou like. Oh, and after you ha\-e 
packed me ofT, telegraph Madame Toussaud to 
find a maid b>' eight to-morrow who will go with 
me to Bermuda. Her New Y'ork address is in this 
little red book. How much time have we?" 

"Half an hoin." 

"Not a minute too much. That 's right, but- 
ton my shoes while I fasten these hooks. If I had 
known what a worker \ou are — The express- 
men, Jane? You see to them. Puss." 

"When the currants is ripe, Mrs. Embur\-," 
said a voice at the door, "shall I make jell the 
same as if you had told me?" 

"Everything as usual, Mary, exactly as though 
I had left explicit directions." 

By the car John waited. "About that consign- 
ment of irises, Mrs. Embury — " 

"Put them in just as we planned last week, 

At the final moment Jane fiew down the path 
with a forgotten umbrella. 

The door of the limousine closed softly and the 
car rolled awa\- carrying its occupants to a fran- 
tic dash from ticket-oftice to baggage-room and 
to the steps of an already signaled train. There 
was only time for the little woman to kiss her 
tall daughter once. 

"Telegraph me to-morrow morning. Kit. I 
shall not set foot on that boat till I know you are 
ofT for .\unt Marcia's." 

Katherine retraced her steps to the car, an 
unwonted warmth at her heart. The absence of 
Marie had made it really exciting to get Mother 
ofT. As the car sped back through the wide, 
shaded streets the girl spread out her fingers on 
her lap and regarded them curiousK-. Those 
fingers had accomplished a number of unfamiliar 
things in the last hour and a half. Of course, she 
was sorr>- that .Aunt Isabelle was ill; but, equally 
vf course, Aunt Isabelle would presently- get well. 

Meanw hile, which of the girls should she invite to 
spend the night with her? They were all so nice, 
she reflected coolly, that it did not matter whom 
she asked, and went upstairs to let Jane help her 
pack her trunks and to dress for dinner in the 
first gown that came to hand. Then Miss Lansing 
arri\-ed and they strolled on the terrace, talking of 
-Xunt Isabelle and Mother's hasty departure and 
Marie's homing soldier; and after that, dinner 
was announced, and she had not telephoned 

Not until after dinner did ."ihe remember her 
promise to her mother. "There, I forgot to tele- 
graph Aunt Marcia!" she thought suddenly. 

Miss Lansing's fingers were running plaintively 
over the ke\s in the music-room. Miss Lansing 
was a big. joll\-. rubicund person with a passion 
for doleful music. 

Katherine left her with a murmured excuse. 
Her hand on the teIephone-recei\-er, she paused. 
"I can't send a message to-night. Aunt Marcia 
goes to bed early. I 'II do it the first thing in the 

She replaced the recei^'er on its hook aiul 
strolled into the library. Miss Lansing, she knew, 
would lie happy at the piano indefinileh-. The 
girl idled among the book-sheUes, her e\e .scan- 
ning the titles. In the end she took none of them. 
Where there were so many which she felt a tem- 
perate inclination to read, it seemed hardly- wnrth 
w hilc actually to begin one. 

.\ big chair held out in^iting leather arms an<l 
she drifted into it. Save for Miss Lansing's sad. 
wandering airs, the house was very- still, .\nothcr 
girl might have found it lonely-. Katherine Em- 
bury was used to sudden flittings; to a house full 
of people one week, almost empty- the next. 1 ler 
thoughts ran back over the kaleidoscope of the 
day's happenings and on to the morrow's journey . 
She did not particularly- anticipate a summer at 
Great-aunt Marcia's, but the know-ledge failed to 
dismay her. .Xnticipation. like fear, Katherine 
conceived to be a sensiition one outgrew with one's 
little girlhood. 

She probed her memory for recollections of 
Aunt Marcia's. There had been a garden and 
books, miles and miles of books, as she had 
thought then. Goats, too. Don had bullied and 
bossed them, but they- had secretly- frightened 
his sister. The sensation still tasted strong under 
her tongue. That had been before Father had 
so much money, when Mother used to make 
one's birthday cake w-ith her own hands and let 
one help with the frosting. She and Don had done 
things together then, Katherine remembered, 
w hen he would let her. How she had adored her 
"big" brother! Two years make a far wider 
senioritv oxer seven than sixteen. They were 




qiiilo of an age now. but she seemed to do \er\' 
little with Don. He was away at college most of 
the vear; and even when he was at home, there 
was no time. Katherine had a vague suspicion 
that life had been, on the whole, more interesting 
in those earlier years. Not that she found fault 
with it now. How could a girl find fault with 
what gave her e\erj-thing she desired e\en before 
she desired it? 

It was nine years since they last went to .\uiu 
Marcia's, who had been ill much of the time 
since. Now the doctors pronounced her cured. 
Katherine thought of the little brown wisp of a 
woman with the big restless black ejes who was 
her great-aunt and wondered dispassionatel\- 
what kind of a summer she was going to ha\"c. 

In her white embroidered gown, her hands quiet 
in her lap, Katherine Embury made a pretty 
picture in the big leather chair. Her slenderness 
co\ered a fine lithe strength, supple and con- 
trolled. Her gray eyes looked out steadfasth", a 
trifle uninterestedly, above the delicate flush of 
her cheeks. Her brown hair rippled with daint>- 
\igor about her small fine head. Yet as she sal 
there thinking, she looked ine.\plicabl\' not quite- 
alive, a creature not cold, but waiting, like a 
sleeping princess untouched as ycl hv the lips ol 

If you had told her that she did not know the 
taste of real li\ing, Katherine would ha\e opened 
her gray eyes wider in a prett)', astonished slaro 
and laughed an uncomprehending, well-bred 
little laugh of frank amusement. But she did not. 
Life for her was swaddled in too manj- things for 
her to know its true savor. She had too main 
clothes to care which she wore, too man\' books 
to wish to read an\', too much to do to find out 
what she liked doing, too man>- friends to lo\e 
any supremely. She was starving on a surfeit. 
She had not a want in the world, and she did n'l 
know it was normal to have w'ants. 

Yet there had been a savor in this afternoon's 
business. Sitting quietly in her big leather chair, 
the girl tried to grasp it, failed, and let the sensa- 
tion float vaguely into an elusive consciousness 
that it had been a surprisingh- pleasant afternoon. 
Then Miss Lansing's music sobbed itself into 
silence and .Miss Lansing's cheerful voice queried, 
"Here in the dark, Kitten?" 

"In the library in the light," said Katherine. 

The next morning she tumbled out of bed to 
telephone two telegrams. The first was to Great- 
aunt Marcia: "Mother called suddenly to Ber- 
muda. May I spend the summer with you? 
Expect me at five. Katherine Embury." 

The second was addre.ssed to her mother: 
"Leaving at eight for .Aunt Marcia's. Hope you 
have good sailing. Love to Aunt Isabelle. K." 



Twelve hours later, Katherine Emburj' stepped 
from a hot red-plush train at Aunt Marcia's 

Her eyes ran quickly o\-er the lines of waiting 
faces. Was Mrs. Burton still .Aunt Marcia's 
housekeeper and did she yet wear the funny jet- 
black "fringe" that ga\e her face such a misfit 
look? But perhaps Mrs. Burton had not been 
able to meet her and "Tim" could nut lca\e his 


horses — Aunt Marcia alwa\s insisted on young, 
high-stepping horses. The girl walked quickb 
through the waiting-room and surveyed the line 
of smart cars drawn up at the street curb. Be- 
hind them straggled a few hacks of uncertain 

"Taxi, lady?" 


"Let me take >ou up, lady." 

"Can you tell me which is Miss Brunt's car?" 

"Elm Street, lady? I '11 take )0U to Miss 
linuil's. ladv." 




She shook her head and returned, thorouglily 
to canvass the station. Nine years is a long time; 
she had grown unrecognizably. Tim. as well as 
Mrs. Burton, might have a succes-sor. It would be 
odd if there were really no one here to meet her. 
Then she remembered that the train had been 
late and she went back to the diminished line of 
hackmen. Her delay had cost her the only taxi 
and all but the shabbiest of the hacks. 

The man knew "Miss Bnmt's place" very well. 
He proceeded to bump and rattle and bang the 
girl thither with a disconcerting shakiness that 
made her wonder whether he was revi\ing the 
drama of the "One Hoss Shay." "Don't look as 
though anybody was to home, Miss," 

It did not; there was no denying the terrifying 
appearance. Not a window was open, not a door 
stood wide, .\wnings were up, but the porches 
were as empty of furniture as of the litter that 
might be expected to accumulate at an empty 
house. Despite the decepti\e trimness of lawn 
and shrubbery, the place had an air of sa\ing, 
"The people who li\e here are awa\' from home." 

"You may wait," said the girl, quieth'. 

In a dozen steps she tra\-ersed the brick path 
from the white gate to the paneled door and 
pushed the bell. Some one would come. Some 
one must come. Howe\'er the house had contri\-ed 
to look, Aunt Marcia was here. N'ot a night out- 
side this roof for twenty years — Father had said 
so. Katherine's finger jammed the button into 
the wall again and again with stubborn energy-. 

Silence met her, the loneh', waiting silence of 
an unoccupied house. .A horrid thought assailed 
the girl's brain. Could .Aunt Marcia be dead!^ 
But surely some one would ha\e sent word. A 
cat brushed against her ankles, and she jumped. 
Where there was a cat there were surely people — 
old lurbaned Nancy, perhaps, in the kitchen. 
Katherine skirted the house, trying the side door 
on the way. Like all the other doors, the kitchen 
door was locked. 

The girl's heart dropjied with a queer, sicken- 
ing sensation quite new to her experience. It was 
after six o'clock at night. She was hot and hun- 
gry and tired in a strange place where the only 
person whose name, e\en, she remembered was 
.\imt Marcia. .\nd Aunt Marcia was not at 
home. .\nd Mother was on her way to Bermuda. 

SlowU , with bewildered feet, tr\ing desperateh' 
to think what to do, Katherine took her way back 
along the brick jyath that bounded the house. 
To the right, approached by turf-steps, lay the 
garden, a blaze of color. 

Was some one cutting roses? The cat, tail 
erect, frolicked down the grassy steps and under 
the rustic gate. The girl followed, her wonted reestablished. 

"Good evening, is the house really closed?" 
Her \oice lifted the question quietly, yet with an 
tmdernote of anxiet\-. It was a lo\ely \oice, as 
exquisitely trained as the speaker's self, and it 
touched the fragrant air with swift charm. 

The rose-cutter turned her head in pleased sur- 
prise, turned her whole body, smiling in frank 
admiration. Katherine saw that she. too. was 
n girl, and of about her own age. a girl in a short 
white skirt and a pink blouse, a girl with big brown 
e\es and brown curb' hair and a piquant gip>>' face. 

"Oh. ' said the brown-eyed girl, "1 did n't hear 
\ou coming, ^'es, the house is closed. Miss 
Brunt is awa\ . \ou know." 

"Out uf town, you mean.'' " 

"She started Monday for Seattle." 

".Seallle!" .\ dozen emotions struggled for 
master\- of the single word. "Why. she has n't 
slept out of this house for twenty yearsi I mean 
.Miss Marcia Brunt. " 

"So do I. She amazed e\erybody. Decided to 
go just three da\s before she started. Mother 
sa\s she used to be like that, quick as a flash to 
do things. .And she is \er\- well now, \ou know. 
She said she thought twent\- \ears was long enough 
to stay at home on a stretch. Miss Weld is with 
her, an old school-friend. Oh. does it matter.'' 
Is anything \vrong?" The swift speech ended 

Katherine gave a queer little mirthless laugh. 
"Not in the least wrong, except that I thought I 
was going to spend the summer here. She is m>' 
aunt, you know." 

"Your aunt? You are n't — Oh. are >ou 
Katherine Kmbur\?" 

"Why yes, but I am afraid that I — " 

"We used to play together, " cried the gipsy- 
faced girl, impetuously, "when we were little 
and you used to \isit Miss Brunt! It was stupid 
of me not to know >'oii at once. I '\e been so 
hoping you 'd come again. I 'm Patsy — Patricia 
Ward. The>- used to call me Pat, and sometimes 
they do still." .A dimple pimctuated the words. 

It was not in Katherine l--mbur\ to pretend to 
remember when she did not; but suddenb . 
looking into the bright, jo>ous face, she disco\ cred 
that she wished she could. 

Patricia forestalled her apologies. "You don't 
remember me. do >ou? But I wish you did. 
because of course, for to-night, you 're coming 
home with me. " 

"Oh. thank you. But I can go to a hotel, if 
\ou will tell me the best one." 

"I 'd hate to go to a hotel alone." 

"I never tried it," Katherine acknowledged. 

"Don't begin now," said Patricia, prompth'. 
"Mother was a friend of your mother's. They 
were girls together. She will love to have \'0U." 



"II is very good ol \ou," inuniiurcd ihc olhur 
"There is a man out in the street witli my hag. 
Where shall I tell him to go?" 

Patricia glanced over the hedge. "1 11 tell him. 
Wait here just a minute." 

Katherine was con- 
scious of a sense of intense 
relief, coupled with the 
knowledge that the relief 
was merely temporar)-. 
.-\fter to-night — what? 
Her head whirled. Home? 
Then Mother would take 
the first boat from the 
islands, leaving Auni 
Isabelle. But Aunt Isa- 
belle had declared Moth- 
er's company a condition 
of her summer in Ber- 
muda. It was all hope- 
lessly involved. If there 
were anywhere, anywhere 
e.xcept home to go to — 
She thought wildly ol 
friends, schoolmates. 
They and their families 
were on the point of 
scattering to the winds 
of summer, at ocean, 
lake, and mountain. Not 
a girl she knew well but 
was flitting somewhere. 

"It nuisl be lerribK 
discouraging," said Pa- 
t ricia's \oice at her elbow, 
"lo travel .so far to get 
10 a place only to have 
10 turn around and go 

"But I can't go back," 
Katherine said. "There 's 
nobod)- at home except 
servants. Though I don't 
see where else I can go, 
either. I don't ijuite see 
what I can do at all." 

Tlie words surprised 
herself. It was not like 
her to confide in stran- 
gers. This sweet, bright 
friendliness had broken 
unaware into her resene. 

Once spoken, she could not recall Irt words. 
There was nothing to do but to go on. F.xcile- 
ment grew on the gipsx' face as the two girls sli|3ped 
through a gate in the rose hedge, crossed a lane, 
turned a corner, and entered a street of comfort- 
able, unpretentious houses. 

".And so here 1 am," hnished Kallieriue, e\ enU . 
"And I ha\e n't tlie remotest idea what to do iie.xl." 

"Mother will tell us," Patricia said, with con- 
viction. "But how thrUling! Perhaps it 's more 
thrilling than nice. Is it.'" 


"Yes," Katherine acknowledged, "1 think it is." 
Patricia slipped her arm through the other girl's 
and squeezed ex'er so slightly. "We '11 take care 
of you. You won't mind rooming with me, will 
you? We are all at home now, you see, and there 
are so many of us that the house is pretty full." 




Katlierine did iiiiiid ; Irt jjiclL-rencc was lo 
room alone. She wondered how il would seem to 
share a bed. Then she became aware of ga>' \oices 
and of a broad veranda full of people. A pair of 
deep, quiet eyes looked into hers; afterward she 
loiild not remember what color they were. She 
had a vague impression of height and strength, of 
rippling dark hair, and a face chiseled with fine 
lines that yet, were beautiful; an impression, not 
vague at all, of reslfulness and refreshment. A 
firm warm hand held hers, a pleasant voice spoke 
words welcoming her "mother's daughter," while 
Patricia's eager tones rip[)led through a scant half- 
dozen sentences of explanation that yet managed 
completely to con\ey the scene in Miss Brunt's 

"Take her upstairs, Pat," said the ]jleasant 
voice. "We will have supper in half an hour." 

And Katherine mounted after Patricia, wonder- 
ing what there was about mothers tliat made them 
leel alike to tired girls, desi)ite such sheer differ- 
ence as existed between the tall, worn-faced lady 
with the wonderful eyes and her own \i\acious 
little velvet-skinned mother. 

As she tossed hat and glo\es on the bed of the 
tiny blue room into which Patricia led her, she 
remembered that there had been another lady on 
the porch, a man, big and broad and clean-shaven, 
three jolly-looking bo>s. and a little girl, all hair- 
bow and long legs. 

"I 've drawn your bath warm," said Patricia, 
"and here are fresh towels. They get all nii-\ed 
up with the boys' if we lea\-e them in the bath- 
room so I always bring mine in here. I '11 be 
back in time to hook you up." 

Downstairs one of the boys \aulted oxer the 
\eranda rail, just missing the bed of ferns under- 
neath. "If supper 's put oft' half an hour, we might 
as well finish packing our kit, fellows." 

Pat bounded through the door, her curls bob- 
bing. "Oh, Mother, I did n't tell you the whole 
of it! She's stranded, completely stranded! Could 
n't we take her to camp with us to-morrow?" 

"To camp.'' W'hoopcf/" The- boy on the path 
affected to fall over .himself. 

"Take a girl like that to tht- wilds of \'er- 
mont?" demanded one of the two on the porch. 
"You 're crazy, Pat." 

"I 'm not, Fred. Why would it be crazy?" 

"Bough beds for a girl like that? Not on \-our 
life, Pat!" 

Upstairs in the blue bedroom Kalheiim- Em- 
bury buttoned herself into a white gown and won- 
dered with more than ordinary inleresi what she 
Would be doing to-morrow night at this hour. 
l~or the first time in her life she found herself 
unable to predict with the slightest hope of accu- 
racy the happenings of her immediate future. 



"P.\T," said Mrs. Ward, softl\-, drawing the girl 
down beside her on the uppermost step of the 
latticed back ])orch, "how much do \oii want to 
go to camp to-morrow?" 

"More than tongue can tell," Pat answered 

"I was afraid so, dear." Mrs. Ward patted the 
hand on her knee. "I had a notion that perhaps 
>ou and I might sta\- here and let the others go 
on to-morrow. Possibly a lit lie later we could 
follow them, in case — The situation is too in- 
definite to put exactly." 

Patricia stared at her mother. "Not go to camp? 
Vou don't mean — You can't mean that we 
ought not to ask Katherine Embury to go with 
us to the woods!" Cenuine amazement looked 
out of the gi]isy face. 

"What do \ou think yourself, daughter?" 
"I think it would be perfectly grand to have 

"For us or for her?" 

"Wh>-, for everybody." Pat was silent a 
minute. "Of course, she could n't go in those 

"I doubt if she has any other kind with her." 
"Could n't she get some.''" 
"Undoubtedly, if camp is the place for her." 
"Oh, Mother, don't tell me >ou 're like the box's 
and think she must be horrid and fussy inside 
because she is so pretty outside." 

"I think nothing of the sort, Pat. But the 
clothes count for something, dear. They indi- 
cate the kind of life she has always been used to. 
I doubt if she has ever washed a dish in her life. 
I am ct-nain she has never carried a pail of water. 
The hardships that go with camp life she knows 
nothing about. I took occasion to ask her if she 
had ever camped out." 

"Camp is n't hardship. Mother. It 's fun." 
"To us, yes, because we like living in an old 
skirt or two and a fiamiel waist or a few plain 
junipers, slet-ping on boughs, and eating Irom 
wooden plates simple food ih'at we cook ourselves 
on an old camp sto\e. The life we li\e in camp. 
Pat, is life stripped close to the bone, and some 
people can't take it at all cheerfully that way. 
We like tramping and fishing and rowing, and 
some people find no i)leasure in them. I own 
that our guest's sophisticated clothes may have 
no coimection with her personal tastes, but I 
have not seen enough of her to be able to judge 
what her tastes are. If she were not happy in 
camp, would it have been kind in us to ask her? 
We know what camp life is; she does n't. And 
under the circumstances she can hardly refuse 




uur iiivitatioii. N'oii see she is completely at our 

"I see," said Pat, slowly. 

"If you did n't like camp life — Imagine it! 
Some perfectly nice girls don't." 

"Bess Haynes did n't last sunniier. That was 
awful, was n't it? I see what you mean. Mother. 
But— btit — we 're all ready." 

"Equally ready to stay at home, dear, as far as 
our wardrobes are concerned. Your aunt will 
take care of Marian and your father and the boys 
don't actually need us." 

Pat's face was very grave. "But what if, after 
you got to know her a little better, you should 
decide that Katherine Embury would n't like 
camp? Should we have to stay home all sum- 

"That is a bridge I have n't >et crossed. .\ 
great many things may happen in a w-eek." 

"You need camp. Mother. You know how- 
well it always makes you feel." 

"I know, too, that when I was a girl Katherine 
Embury's mother was my dearest friend." 

"Do you want me to say that we will sta>' here?" 
"Xo, Pat. I am asking what you think we 
would better do — what we can do." 

Patricia drew a long breath. Through the 
house from the front veranda floated gay talk 
and laughter. She could distinguish Phil's level, 
close-clipped speech, though she could not catch 
the words. Fred's deep tones boomed now and 
then, and Nick's higher-keyed voice cut in with 
a phrase or two. They were having a \er>- good 
time out there. There was alwa\s a good lime 
where the bo>s were. .\nd she had Ix-en counting 
the da>'s initil to-morrow when she and they would 
begin to have the world to theniseUes again as 
lhe\- used to have it. No college, no high school, 
no anything to interfere. How could any one 
her to take fi\e. six, who knew how many days out 
of this blissful summer and give them away to a 
girl with whom she had once played tag, a girl 
who had not remembered that such a person as 
Patricia Ward existed ? 

The girl swallowed hard on a lump in her throat. 
"If you are willing, Mother, I think we would bel- 
ter stay," she said firml>". 

Her mother kissed her. "Thank you, dear. I 
don't see how we could turn her out. It would 
make me very unhapp>- to do thai." 

Pat nodded soberh'. "I found her. .And I hatl 
been wishing for years that she would come here 
again. So now it seems to be up to me to be de- 
cent about it." She squeezed her mother. "I'm 
glad you arc n't in Bermuda." 

"I am glad I am not. I would much rather lie 
here by my nice little daughter." 
"Not very nice. Mother." 

(To be 

"Quite superlativel)- nice, Pat. I am proud ol 
you. Now I suppose we shall ha\e to go in and 
break the news in as stealthy a manner as possible 
to our trusting family." 

.An hour later Phil cornered Pat on the back 
stairs as she was slipping down to the refrigerator 
for a glass of water. 

"Look here," he demanded abruptly, "what 's 
this Mother tells me about \'ou two not going to 
camp to-morrow?" 

Pat shook her head. "Not to-morrow. We '11 
be coming on in a few days, Phil. That is," she 
added honestly, "I hope we will." 

"If >ou don't, I '11 cut for home and gel you. 
It 's that girl, I suppose." 

"I don't think that is a ver\- nice way to speak 
of a guest, Phil." 

"Bother a guest! Nobody asked her." 

"I did;and now Mother." Pat's heart lightened 
at the genuine disgust in her brother's tone, light- 
ened enough to let a teasing imp into her voice. 
"It sounded as though you were having a pretty 
good time with her to-night." 

"Huh! No reason for singing glory hallelujah 
when she breaks up our summer. Look here, 
Patrick Henry, you and I ha\-e got a few things on 
for the next two months." 

"Don't I know it?" There was not e\en a 
[)retense of fun in the girl's voice now. "Oh, Phil, 
1 could cry, I feel so badly! Do you think you 
would mind, very much, if I should cry?" 

"April showers make May flowers," chanted 
Phil, graxely, depositing himself on the step 
abo\-e his sister where he relapsed into deep 
gloom. "It 's a shame, Pat. When a fellow has 
been aw-ay from home all the \ear, he likes to see 
his family the little time there 's left." 

"He does n't want it any more than his fainil> 
wants to see him. Where 's Nick?" 

"Ruffles went in search of the punch-bag. 
Said he had to get something out of his s\stem 
before he .slept. .A good idea!" connnended Phil. 
"I 'd like a few rounds myself." 

Pat, returning with the glass of water to the 
blue bedroom, found her guest almost asleep. 

"Thank you," Katherine murmured drowsily, 
as she handed back the glass. "Does it matter, 
particularU-, where I lie down? I can't promise 
\ou where I may wake U|)." 

Brushing her hair at the glass, Pat watched 
the other girl draw up the covers and fall almost 
instantU- asleep, her cheek cushioned on an 
outflung arm. 

"How tired she mu^t lui\e been!" Pat thoughl. 
-And again, "How pretty she is! And I am like 
that chair to her, a piece of furniture that makes 
the situation livable, that 's all. I wonder when 
she will really begin to see me." 


THK HAKHOK AN]i Ml,)Ll-. AT liA I 1 \1 


It is a lo7ig while ago since Captain Kidd and his 
crew of cutlass-arnied pirates coursed the Spanish 
main in their biack-tlagged \'essel, but the days 
of adventure and romance are not past. Sea- 
faring brigands still sail the high seas and strike 
terror to the hearts of imwary travelers. 

Such an adventure as might have befallen a 
knight in a story-book took place in the Black 
Sea a year ago this month, with two American 
boys, William and John Haskell, sons of Colonel. 
Haskell, High Commissioner to Armenia and 
chief representative of the Near East Relief, 
f)laying the leading parts. The boys were on 
their way home with their mother. They had 
sailed from Batum, a seaport on the eastern 
shore of the Black Sea, on a little French packet- 
steamer, the Siirrah, along with two other .'\meri- 
cans, boimd for the United States. 

As the little vessel steamed out of Batum har- 
bor, with the sun shining bright on her glistening 
riecks and the little white-tip[:)ed waves bobbing 
up and down beneath her bows, the two boys 
drew a long sigh. Their >ear of excitement was 
over. Glad as they would be to see their own 
country once more, still, this year in the Near 
East had been a \er>' interesting one. Always 
there had been something new and different, 
something of which they could tell tht^r friends 
back home with great jiride, something e\ery 
boy did not see. -Vnil llic>- were a little sorr>' 
that it was all o\er. 

For a long time the bo>s stood together on the 
deck, watching the outlines of llie land grow 
dinnner in the distance. 

"Xothin' nun'h '11 ever ha|)pen lo us ag.iin, I 
suppose," said \\ illiam, niournfulK'. 

"Just school an' sliulyin' an' lliings," rcs|)on(lcd 
his brother; "no fun in that." 

"Wish there 'd be a submarine or somelhiu'!" 
exclaimed William, with sutlden inspiration. 
"Guess if we 're almost blown up by one o' them, 
the fellows 'tid think it was pietty line." 

"Yes, but there are n't any more submarines," 
rejjlied John, scornfully. "There is n't any more 
auNthing, I tell you — just ridin' home on this 
little French bf)at and then goin' back to school. 
Of course," he added, "there ina>' be some pretty 
good hikes and campin' parties, but that is n't 
like battles. Gee! I wish one more real thing 
would happen, somethin' that ne\er happened 
before, and then I 'd just as soon go back home." 

"l^m," mumbled William, and the two boys 
stumbled in to dinner. 

It was later that night, when darkness' had 
fallen about the little ship until nothing but the 
narrow beam from the Siiirah's searchlight could 
be seen, that the something happened. 

John and W illiam had gone to their state-room. 
E\-er>thing was quiet on board; nothing could be 
heard but the steady chug-chugging of the engine 
and the swish of the wa\es against the ship's side. 

Then suddenly there came a sharp, startled cr\- 
from the stern of the \essel. followed b>- hoarse 
.shouts, then a .sound of shuttling and a quick 
hurrying of feet through the passageways suc- 
ceeded In' a terrible stillness. Even the soiuid of 
the engines stopped ! John and William stood 
motionless, scarcely daring to breathe, their 
hearts thumping like mad. FinalK' John found 
his voice. "Mother," he said as hra\el> ,is he 
could, "what is the matter?" 

Hut before his mother, in the adjoining si.ite- 
room, could answer, there came a great pounding 
at the door and a rough \oice called something in 
a loud, conunandiiig tone. The two boys stared 
at ea( h cilhi-r. their leci rijuicd to the spot. .Now 
was their chance to show how brave they could 
be, but what could they do? If whoe\er was on 
the outside tried to batter down the door, as it 
.sei-med he would. the\' wotild not be strong enough 
to pre\enl him. The>' could ouK stand b\- their 
mother anil slio\\ this terrible person that the\ 
were not afraid. 

Just then the door burst open, and e\en the 



courage of the American bo>s wa\cred at the 
sight that greeted them. A black-masked figure, 
armed with a rexolver, and with a long dagger 
stuck through his belt, stood in the doorway! An 
instant he remained perfectly still, his eyes glitter- 
ing through his black mask, his white teeth gleam- 
ing under his bristling mustache. Then he gave 
a short, rough laugh, and, pushing the boys aside 
with the butt of his revoKcr, he strode into the 
next state-room. 

John and William were after him in a (lash. 
Rushing to their mother's side, they confronted 
the pirate with their heads flung up, their c>cs 
(lashing. If they could n't fight, they could at 
least show him they would n't run. 

The robber, for such he appeared to be, spoke 
in quick, short sentences, pointing his rexolver at 
the necklace and rings which Mrs. Haskell was 
wearing and motioning to a siUer bag Avhich la>- 
on the dressing-table. It was quite useless to 
resist and Mrs. Haskell calmh- took ofif her jewels 
and handed them o\-er. She went to the dressing- 
table and poured out the contents of the purse. 

She did something else which no one saw: she 
brushed a mass of papers and writing material 
into the waste-basket. Hidden amongst these 
papers was a little flat bag which she had taken 
from the sih-er purse! 

The next proceedings were carried on in abso- 
lute silence. The pirate searched both the boys 
and their mother. Then he examined everything 
in the two rooms, — the desks, the baggage, e\'en 
the bedding, — e\er\thing but the Avaste-baskct in 
which la\- tlie little flat bag. When he had satis- 
fied himself that lie had found e\er>thing of 
\Hhic, he ga\e a loud snort of laughter and strode 
out of the room. 

Scarcely had the sound of the pir.ite's foul- 
steps died awa>' when there was an excited clatter 
of \oices from outside. There came a rajiping on 
the door and a familiar \oice in luiglish called 
out. ".Ml right in here?" It was the American 

Mrs. Haskell hurried to the door. "Vcs, wc 're 
all right. What 's been ha[)pening?" 

"\\ hat 's been happening.-* \\ hy, we '\e been 
held up by a band of pirates who were hidden in 
the ship when we left Batuni. They held up the 
crew and stopped the boat. Now they 're put- 
ting off for shore in one of the life-boats. Come 
out on deck and see them off." 

Mrs. Haskell and the two bo\'s hurried to the 
fleck. In the midst of an inky darkivess, the 
htlle Suirah bobbed about oi\ the black water. 
On one side of the shij) a band of black-masked 
men, all with revolvers leveled, were ordering the 
'■rew to lower one of the life-boats. SilentK- and 
quickb- the men were obeying. Resistance would 

ha\'c been useless, as the bandits were armed anrl 
too numerous to be overcome. 

At last the little boat was dropped to the dark 
water below. A ladder was thrown over the side 
and four of the crew were ordered to take their 
places at the oars. Then, backing slowly away, 
with their pistols still pointed at the crew and 
passengers, the pirates reached the ladder and 
were down in a flash. As the last one left the 
ship, he triumphantb' brandished his revolver 
and, ere he disappeared in the darkness, fired two 
shots just over the heads of the French sailors. 

.\s if in answer, there came the toot of a horn 
in the distance. A few hundred yards to the 
stern of the Suirah a light flashed suddenh . 
Once more the pirate's shots rang out, and again 
the horn replied. In the stillness, the Suirah's 
little company could hear the splash of the oars as 
the boat made its way toward the light, but in 
the darkness they could see nothing. 

F"or many minutes the Suirah's passengers 
waited, huddled together, speaking only in whis- 
pers. At the end of nearly half an hour the\' 
heard the row-boat returning, and a few minutes 
later the tour sailors called to them from below 
to let down the ladder. 

For the first time, some one spoke aloud. 

"They made us row over to a little gasolene 
launch half a mile away that had followed us out 
of the bay and waited there to meet them," one of 
the sailors said, as the four clambered over the 
rail of the ship. "The launch hid its light until 
they got the signal of two pistol-shots from here," 
he continued, ".md then the>' .signaled where they 
were — a great little getawaj- for them!" 

It was .some time later before the excitement 
finally died down and the bovs and their mother 
returned to their .state-rooms. "Well, we cer- 
tainly had our adventure, all right!" .said John. 

"Yes, we did," answered William; "but we 've 
lost all our money, too. Is n't it awful, Mother?" 

"Not quite all, boys," rejilied Mrs. Haskell; and 
walking over to the waste-basket, she pulled out 
the little flat bag. "This I managed to save. 
Almost all of our mone>' was in here, so tho rob- 
bers did n't get so much after all!" 

I lalf an hour later, as the bo\s were getting into 
their narrow bunks, the spirit of adventure had 
cooled a bit. "Just the same," said John, "1 
think I '11 be pretty glad when we get back to 
.America again. This 'II make a fine story to tell 
the fellows, but — gee! do you know, I was kind 
o' scared for a while there." 

"Huh!" grunted William, as he ])ulled the 
covers up over his head, "who cares about being 
a little .scared if he can gel attacked by jjirates. 
That 's what / say!" 

Marx W'il.snu. 



When I began writing golf stories for St. Nicho- 
las I was a no^•ice at playing the game as far as 
competition and experience were concerned. 
Most of my tournaments had been either inter- 
scholastic or local. Since those da>s many things 
ha\e happened to me that the a\erage youth does 
not think about in the beginning of his career 
on the links. Perhaps the greatest lesson from 
experience, in so far as golf is concerned, is to 
learn to save your strength and enthusiasm for the 
time when you really need them. Most of us burn 
ourselves out before it is time to meet competition 
of the hardest kind. 

As I see golf now, I would rather enter a cham- 
pionship with the knowledge that \\'hile I might 
have played more often in preparing for it. this 
handicap would be more than taken care of by the 
enthusiasm I would have for the matches. Lack- 
ing this keenness, one is almost sure to encounter 
di.saster. The first time this came to m>' attention 
was in 191 5. When the summer season came 
around that year and John Anderson's work at 
the Fessenden School was over, he rushed to his 
boys' camp in the woods of New Hampshire, miles 
from any links, where he had no opportunity 
whatever to play his favorite game. He had little 
or no time to think of it, cither, being so busy tak- 
ing care of the man\' bo\s who spent the summer 
with him. 

That year the Amateur Championship was 
played at the Detroit Country Club. On m\ 
way to it I happened upon John bent upon the 
same mission — winning the title. He informed 
me casually he had played but one game of golf 
since school had closed in the early summer, two 
months before. M\' opinion was that he had ab- 
soluteh' no chance to do anything. We arri\('d on 
the links two days before the (]ualifying roimd. 
John went o\er the course several times, prac- 
tised some mashie shots in addition, and expressed 
himself as being not only ready for the affair, but 
satisfied with his game. 

This all struck me as rather amusing in \iew of 
(he fact that all the other fellows who were pres- 
ent had been hard at work since early spring, prac- 
tising for this \er\ tournament. There was one 
other contestant who had followed John's seeming 
lack of plan — Bob Gardner. Bob had gi\en little 
time to golf that year. But iinagine my surprise, 
when it came down to the finals, to find these two 
players the sole sur\i\-ors. 

T have always attributed this rather startling 
ending nf the 1015 Amateur to the fart these 

two golfers had entered that affair wth the great- 
est enthusiasm imaginable and that this ver>- 
thing did more than any other factor to bring out 
the splendid games they played. Where the 
others had worn themselves out in the prepara- 
tion, Anderson and Gardner had stored up an 
abundance of strength and enthusiasm. They 
had ample reserxe power to call upon in the 
pinches, and as the play advanced from day to 
day, their games improved by leaps and bounds. 

Keeping fit. physically and mentally, is the big 
job of all athletes. What would happen to a big 
college football ele\en if its trainer did not watch 
particularly this important point? I am inclined 
to think, and those close to this sport ha\e told 
me, that a team which is stale and overworked » 
rarely lasts a full period. The same thing is true 
in track athletics. There is the case of Joie Ray, 
one of the greatest mile-runners we have ever 
produced. Ray went to Antwerp this past sum- 
mer to compete in the Ohnipic Games as a mem- 
ber of the team from the I'nited States. From 
early winter and up to the time he sailed to Bel- 
gium, Ray had been in active competition. There 
was no one at his distance during all this long 
period who seemed to be in his class. It was felt 
b>- all who followed those games that, when his 
special e\ent was run. Ra\' would prove an easy 
winner. But instead of coming in first in this race. 
Ra\ did not place! Yon cannot make nic belie\e 
there arc half a dozen better men in this e\ent 
than Joie Ra\'. It was just another case of being 
burned out. Ra\- suffered the penalty which 
comes from loo much preparation. 

Of course, when they consider golf, most bo\'s 
will sa\' it is not like (he strenuous sports and that 
the average healthx \oungster can pla\ it all day 
without getting tired. 1 'II admit that football or 
mile-running is a far (nore wearing ga(ne; bu( I 
(uust say that golf carries a greater mental strain 
than ahnost any sport we ha\e. To be sure, there 
is .such a thing as not playing enough to put one in 
just the right condition, and the case of John .An- 
derson, which 1 cited, almost illustrates this. Cir- 
cu(ns(ances simpb' (nade it imixissible for him to 
gi\e the time to golf that he felt he should ha\c 
gi\en in his preparation for the .Vtnateur Cham- 
pionship at Detroit in 1915. But the fact remains 
that his long lay-off from the ganie, coupled with 
his fine physical condition, just about fitted him 
perfectly for the supre(ne test of the season. 

In the beginning of nn' conipetiti\e days I used 
t(i work h.ird .ind ronsripiitionslv for a big event. 



The last few seasons I have not. 1 ha\ e felt satis- 
fied to arrive on the scene a day or two before the 
match started. Then I would go around the 
course a few times without taxing my strength to 
any great extent, more for the purpose of getting 
its general plan in nn" 
mind than for anything 
else. Such a scheme 
sa\ed me mentalh' and 
plnsically for the pla\-, 
just as it taught me all 
that was necessar\- to 
know about the course. 

One of the most apt 
illustrations of oxer-golf- 
ing concerns the invasion 
ot England b\' a group of 
United States amateurs 
in 1914. This summer a 
greater invasion is in or- 
der. It is to be hoped we 
may profit b\' our earlier 
experience. 1 n that > ear 
the late Fred Herreshoff. 
Jerrv' Travers. Arthur 
Lockwood, and the pres- 
ent writer went oxer in 
quest of the British Ama- 
teur title sex-eral weeks 
in advance of "Chick" 
Evans, Harold Weber, 
I'raser Hale, anrl sonic 
ot her plaxers. We, of 1 he 
advance guard, ihonglii 
we xxere doing the right 
thing. Now it happen> 
that tiic English champi- 
onship links are isolated. 
Oticc xou gel to I hem, 
there is nothing to do but 
to play golf. We soon 
tired of haxing so much 
of it, but we continued tci 
play for xvant of other re- 
creation. Just before the 
big event started, Jerr\ 
Trax-ers came to nie and 
said, "Francis, I 'm tired 
out. I wish this tournament was oxer with." 
I le expressed m\- feelings exactly. You can 
judge for yourself whether or not xve xxere fit to 
plax- x\hen the big exent came. I nexer can be 
convinced that this xvas not the cause of our 
early eliminations. 

The less the experience of a golfer, the more apt 
he is to over-golf. .At the Engineers' Club this 
past summer I saxvany number of high-class >oung 
players practising for hours at a time, ex-en ,Tfter 

they had played thirtv-six holes. Do you not sec 
how little of value there xxas in such practice after 
muscles xvere xvear)' from a full dav' of play? One 
V'oungster in particular xx-as advised to smooth his 
drive. I".\ erv dav he must have driven enough 


balls, lolluwing his two rounds, to equal the 
effort he had prcviouslv- spent in going around the 
links. He had developed a slice. But how he ever 
hoped to remedv- it, with wrists and muscles al- 
readx- fatigued, is beyond me! Indeed, one has 
but to spend a fexv davs at a course before a 
championship event starts in order to separate the 
old hands from the noxices. The veterans will go 
there for txx-o purposes — hitting enough shots to 
get the stiffness out of their arms, and familiariz- 




ing themselves with the course: while the no\ ices 
use every minute of daylight to play and practise. 
Sometimes this latter class wins; but more often, 
and far too frequenlK-, they \vear\- themselves 
be\ond the point of recoven,'. 

Golf is no longer an old man's game. The 
youth of this and other nations are taking it up in 
ever increasing nimibers because they ha\e found 
that no other sport possesses quite the same pecu- 
liar nerve-stirring or soul-trying qualities as does 
this one. There are two kinds of golf, to be sure — 
that played with friends for tlic mere pleasure of 
being outdoors with them and measuring strokes, 
and that plaxed for championships and to win, al- 
though the same high ethics and good feeling prc- 
\ail in both. 

To illustrate the soul-tr\ing feature oi this sport 
one has but to review in part the match between 
\oung Reggie Lewis and Chick Evans at the 
Amateur Championship this past summer. After 
battling for the best part of a day. Lewis stepped 
up to the last tee with a lead of one hole on Evans 
and drove as fine a ball down the middle of the 
fairway as any one would want. This imrway, 
for the time being, had been transformed into a 
vast amphitheater, packed with an enormous 
crowd, for the word had gone forth that the\oung- 
ster was downing F.vans, news that seemed mi- 
raculous to the followers of amateur pla\'. Then 
came Chick's turn. He had witnessed this magnif- 
icent shot by Lewis and must ha\e realized the 
odds were greath' against him. for he had to win 
that hole to prevent defeat. Can \ ou imagine his 
distress when his tee-shot forced the crowd to 
part, a sure indication that he had pulled it off 
the fairway and would find an imfa\orablc lie? 

Xo golfer ever faced a harder task than did 
Evans when he came upon his ball. In the first 
place, a sand-trap had caught it; and in the 
second, there was a barrier between him and the 
green in the form of a clump of trees. E\ans did 
the only thing possible under the conditions — 
tried for the green. I lis attempt was anything but 
a success, as his ball, striking the limb of a tree, 
bounded back upon the fairway but a few yards in 
advance of the tee-shot of Lewis. This boy showed 
judgment on his second by playing it for the 
back of the green, safe from all apparent harm. 
As a result, Lewis lay just o\er the green on an 
embankment and Evans some one himdred-odd 
yards away, both to pla>- three. 

A fine mashie by Evans came to twenty feet be- 
yond the pin. It was a grand shot; but for all 
that, his case looked hopeless. Miracles were 
needed to win that hole and this shot had not been 
one. It seemed like a sure five for both, which 
was all that Lewis needed to win. Lewis took his 
time playing his third, a chip-shot thai ran up 

niceU' to within eight feet of the cup. \'ictory 
seemed a certainty for him. To rob him of it, 
Evans had to sink a nasty downhill putt of twenty 
feet and depend upon Lewis missing one of eight! 
\obod\' enxied Chick his position. 

Xow, \ears of experience had taught Chick that 
a golfer should always ha\e something in reserve 
to call upon in the crisis, and upon that reserve he 
was now to depend. Before it was his turn to play 
he had been walking back and forth across the 
green, much as does the thoroughbred at the 
barrier, waiting for the start. It seemed to me 
that during those awesome moments Chick was 
weighing his chances and was coming to a con- 
clusion. The outstanding feature of the real 
athlete's make-up is the uncann>- way he has of 
meeting the emergenc>'. Then he came to his 
ball, studied the line, and with a firm putt sent it 
on its course along that treacherous downhill 
green. The next thing we knew, it dropped out of 
sight into the cup. L'nder the conditions, Lewis 
would ha\e pro\ed himself a miracle-man extraor- 
dinary had he sunk his own putt for a half. As 
it was, he made a valiant attempt. It took Chick 
fi\e extra holes to gain his \ictor\- — the longest 
match e\er played in our Amateur. 

As I analyze that match, it was only another 
case of an accomplished golfer winning over one 
less experienced. This ma>' seem like a crude 
statement, in view of the record of Lewis, but I 
think all will agree he is less ex|x?rienced by far 
than Evans. As it was his battle, that day stamps 
him as one of the greatest fighters and golfers in 
the country. But the main point I want to drive 
home about this same match is that had Chick 
l)een wear\ from loo much golf, the reser\e force 
which pulled him out of as critical a hole as any 
champion ever faced would ha\e lieen lacking. 

All bo\s ha\e heard of l-'red Wright, the fine 
young golfer who won the Mass;ichiiselts title last 
year and tied Bobb>- Jones in the qualifying round 
of the National Amateur. Just the other day I 
was talking with him about this point of pUning 
too much. lie informed me that while he pla\cd 
a great deal last \ear, there was a period of about 
three weeks w hen he did not touch a club. It was 
before the Massachusetts championship, which, 
as usual, attracted a fine field. It was his ambi- 
tion to win this e\cnt. 

He qualified easily enough and on each succeed- 
ing da\- impro\ed in play until he came to finals, 
where he faced Jesse Guilford, the "Siege-gun" of 
the links. Guilford had Ikh-u pkiying right along 
up to this lomiiamenl. .\s a result, he was tired 
and made a slow start. Wright, kexed up and 
keen on account of his rest, started off like a 
frisk>- colt, settled right down to play, and in a 
jifTy had a nice lead. (~iuiIford found himself 



struggling for lial\ed liolos instead of wins and 
unable to force his game to its top pace. Wright 
won, and attributes his success to his lay-off. 

I trust from all 1 have said that m\' readers will 
not carry the impression with them that I recom- 
mend little or no golf as a best means of preparing 
for big things. On the contrary, I strongly advise 
a great deal of it, but not just before a big event. 
One should learn as early as possible in his golf 
career just how much work and practice he needs 
to be in prime condition and at the top of his game. 
Then care must be used. I should advise boys and 
girls to practise their weaknesses in the spring. 

Xo other problem of the game quite equals the 
one of knowing just what doses of golf to take to 
keep in fine form. This past summer I did a lot of 
work preparing for the meeting Jesse Guilford and 
I had with Ray and X'ardon. Five days before 
that meeting I did the course in 69, two strokes 

luider par. I decided not to iila\' again until ihi- 
da\- before. That was where I made in\' mistake. 
On that day I repeated this fine score, but was 
never so blue in my life. My friends were elated 
and counted on my playing a great game. I was 
afraid, and justly, that I had started downhill. 
The ne.\t day my surmise proved correct. I had 
played just once too often. Had I been a bit more 
careful, or a better judge of myself, this slump 
might not have happened. I do not put this down 
because I am trying to excuse my defeat. Nothing 
is farther from my thoughts. I 'm merely trying 
to illustrate the point of this story. The tired 
golfer is not the best. When he feels that way in 
his muscles or has n't a keen desire to. play, the 
very best thing he can do is to forget all about 
golf until the desire comes back. That, you will 
find, is the real secret of success, once yoti have 
mastered your strokes. 


^hAVhackitt's (5) Final Round 

^ Oy Charles ^jZe s re r*- 

HE softly shimmering summer sun shone smiling in the sky 
l> (Where I 've noticed he quite often does his smiling, by the by). 
He smiled upon the Lady Kate, but vainly, it appears. 
For though the sim was smiling, the daughter was in tears. 

\\ liile Lord Bazoom. her father, was playing "Snap the whip" 
W ith some of his retainers, she had given him the slip 
And stolen forth into the wood — but sadly to her cost! 
For now 't was evident the lass, alasl at last was lost. 

Now could I extricate .Miss Kate from out the wood, I would; 

But you see I find I '\c lost her, so to try will do no good. 

Let 's change the scene. Zijj — Presto — Pop! And now what do we spv? 

.As I live, 't is good Sir W'hackitt. with a golf-ball on his eye! 

(His eye upon the ball, I mean.) And here 's Sir Gigaboo, 
Sir Wibble, stout Sir Boofus, and scores of others, too, 
-Ml come to watch the final round between the Count de Blu|)p 
.\nd the noble young Sir W'hackitl for the Royal Golfing Cup. 

Sir Wibble, in his round against Sir Wobble (yes, his twin). 
Defaulted when his mashie shot bounced ofi' Sir Wobble's shin. 
Sir Boofus was a sailor bold; said he, "This game is grand; 
But though at home at sea, I see I am at sea on land !" 


3ir iVtbble defaulting 




Of course Sir W'hackitt soon found out he could not play at al 
"I wot not what doth ail me!" quoth he. Just then his 1 
Sailed off and landed in a wood some half a mile away! 
"Gadzooks! I '11 find the thing," he cried, "e'en though it take all 



Well, I must stop. But (you 're so keen!) the sequel need I tell — 
How good Sir W'hackitt found the ball — and Lady Kate as well? 
And as to their betrothal — well, you safe!)' may surmise 
That though Sir W'hackitt lost the cup, he surely won a prize! 




AtKlmrs of "The l-uck>" Sixiiciicc," "Beatrice of Denrwootl.'* "\'ivp la Franco!" etc. 

s^'^orsls oi" iiii: rkiAiois ixsi aimlnts 

Peg Travers, joint heir with hrr brotiicr Jack to tlie estate of Denewood. in (fcrinantown. which they are too poor 
to keep up and have rented as a school for girls, receives a letter from her brother, an officer with the A. E. F.. 
saying that a relative of the family, a French girl named Beatrice de Soiilange. has conio to him asking for assistance, 
and he has thought it best to send her to America. Her brother. Louis de Soulange. an otifieer in the French army, 
in an aeroplane flight over the lines, has disappeared and is "missing." Peg. who lives with her aunt in the lodge at 
Denewood. is talking this news over with her cmisin. Betty Powell, when the French girl unexpectedlv arrives — a 
girl of their own age. deeply interested in the Denewood books and the history of their house. FTer first desire is to 
see the lucky sixpence, their tamily talisman, and when she is lold that it has been lost tor a century she is astounded 
at the girls' indifference and declares her lielief that with it was lost the lu<-k of Denewood. Full of gratitude for 
their whole-hearted hospitality, she determines to find the sixpence and restore the luck of the house. Beatrice 
plans to hunt for it. and, to that end. is anxious to become a pupil at Maple Hall, as the school at Denewood is 
called. On her admission to the school Beatrice begins her search for the sixpence. Miss Maple discovering this 
and thinking it a waste of time forbids da\'-scholars to go above tlic first floor of Maple Hall. Peg is vastly 
excited by a letter from Jack asking for a description of the Soulange ring and warnii\g lu-r to stand guarrl over Be 
lest unauthorized news of her brother rouse false hopes. Shortly after, a young man. who announces himself as 
Captain Badger of the British Army, calls, saying that he has news of Louis which he will give to no one but Be. 
With Jack's letter in her mind. Peg refuses to let him see Be. Her cousin. Mr. Powell, approves of what she lias 
done. Be, ignorant of this crisis in her affairs, imsuccessfully searches the spring-house for the entrance to the 
secret passage she beUeves is still there. Betty, from the living-room, sees the Englishman return to the lodge. 
Beatrice goes again to the spring-house and finds the passage. Hearing some one coming, she conceals herself 
in it. Betty is mistaken for Be by Captain Badger and Peg persuades her to impersonate her cousin, in order to 
obtain news of Louis, and, seated outside the spring-house, hear what he has to say, while Peg. concealed inside, 
could also find out what the stranger proposed. 



Peg had arri\ed at the spring-house a Httlc 
breathless from running. She came in from the 
back and shpped quickly inside, hoping that she 
had not been obser\ed from the teacher's pa\iliun. 
Closing the door behind her, she stro\-e to be as 
quiet as ]50ssible, but the hinges would creak in 
spite of her precautions. As she pushed, her 
hand came in contact with an old-fashioned bolt, 
which put an idea into her busy brain. 

"Humph! That 's good," she thought. "If 
he is very suspicious, he might try the door." It 
took an effort to slip the rusty fastening, but she 
succeeded just as the murmur ot x'oices outside 
reached her. Trembling with excitement, she 
crouched down, wondering what would be the 
outcome of this adventure. 

Peg's heart gave a great thump of apprehension 
as Captain Badger pressed his weight against the 
door, but she smiled confidently and congratu- 
lated herself upon her forethought when she 
found it held solidK'. Then she concentrated all 
her attention upon the con\ersalion taking [ilacc 
outside, from which she was separated b%' onl\' 
an inch or two of oak planking. She found that 
she could hear perfectly, and had not long to wait 
before Betty's exclamation of surprised con- 
sternation set her thoughts whirling. 

"The Soulange ring!" 

In a moment all her theories were upset. Jack 
could not ha\e seen the ring if this British captain 
had it in his possession. .\ll the conjectures she 
had e\ol\ed to cx|)lain her brother's desire for a 
description of the ancient heirloom apparenth* 
were wrong. 

On the other hand, here was e\idence that the 
Knglish ofiicer nuist know something of Louis de 
Soulange. She held her breath, w aiting anxiously 
for the next words of those without. 

"This ring will ]irove to you. Mademoiselle, 
that 1 am in >oiir l)rother's confidence. It was 
ruTfssar) to establish that fact before we could 
proceed. You understand, do \ou not?" 

Bett\-, somewhat disma\ed, nodded her head. 
To be suddenly confronted with that ring, which 
had always seemed mysterious and unreal to her. 
was ver>' disconcerting, but surelx' Louis would 
not have entrusted a relic so cherished to any but 
a friend. .\lso, she understood that the man 
beside her had an important communication to 
make about the lost young Frenchman. What 
would it be? She could not guess; and in a \ague 
way, she was a little frightened. The man's 
frank assumption that she was Beatrice left her 
no defense should he discover his mistake. For a 
moment she was too troubled to utter a sound. 

She was relieved, however, to find Captain 
Badger placing a wholh' unwarranted construc- 
tion upon her constraint. 

"Your emotion is natural. " he said, in a s\ni- 


'Mil. i.rcK oi i)f:n[a\()()I) 


patlielic voice. "The silence ihat has siirrouudefi 
your brother's disajipearaiice inusl ha\e been 
most paiiiliii. Nothing is so hard to bear as 
uncertainty, and it is his wish, first of ail, that 
>ou should be relie\ed of any further doubt. 
Vou will be rejoiced to learn. Mademoiselle, that 
he is ali\e." 

lie ceased speaking and watched the girl beside 
him narrowU', and Betty, conscious that what had 
just been said would be of tremendous importance 
to Be, whom she was impersonating, sunnnoiied 
all her faculties to play her part convincingly. 

"Oh, I 'ave always known it; yet I am so jo>- 
ful," she murnuired, looking straight before her. 
"I felt that he nius' be ali\e, and now — and 
now — " She stopped, faltering, and, with a quick 
turn toward the captain, held out her hand to 
him. "How can I thank you.'" she said, with a 
little choke in her \oice that was very well done 

"I am glad to have brought so welcome a mes- 
sage, Mademoiselle," the officer returned impres- 
sively, but he could not hide a faint smile of sat- 
isfaction that, for an instant, showed his while, 
pointed teeth. 

He took the girl's iiroffered hand, but, dropping 
it at once, resumed his more businesslike tone. 

"Now that your mind is at rest. Mademoiselle," 
he went on, "I may sa\- that Louis was most 
reluctant to give me this. But it was necessar>- 
in order that you should not question his ha%ing 
sent me." As he ended, he put the ring back in 
his pocket. 

"But why is he not here himself?" asked Belly. 
"What need was there of a messenger.''" 

"\"ou will imdersland the need when 1 tell >ou 
my story, which I will do as briefly as I can," 
Captain Badger began briskly. . "You recall 
that on the night he disapi^eared Captain do 
Soulange had accomplished his purpose. That 
much was well known to the oflicers of the French 
-Army. But what hapiiened lo him after that, 
only I and a few others in the world can reveal." 

"He was taken pri.soner.-'" Betty asked eagerly. 
She no longer needed lo a.ssmne an interest lo 
fit the role she was playing. Be herself could 
have been but little more thrilled by the prospect 
of a full revelation of what had befallen Louis. 
Belly was conscious that her romantic imaginings 
were being carried far bej'onti any point she could 
have invented. To be sure, she realized that at 
any moment Captain Badger might discover the 
deception that was being pla\cd upon him, and 
each time she was forced lo move in the ] ire- 
carious game she was playing she felt as if she 
were walking along the edge of a precipice. Peg 
had prophesied thrills, and Peg had been right. 

"Captain de Soulange was taken prisoner," 

Captain Badger's voice went on smoothly. "As 
he was returning, elated at having accomplished 
what he had set out to do, suddenly a cloth was 
thrown o\er his head and he was seized from 
behind. In a moment his arms were secured and 
he was captured, unhanned, without a blow being 

"I am rejoice' that he was not hurl," Betty 
murmured gratefulK . 

"It was not intended that he should be hurt. 
Mademoiselle," the n an continued. "Those who 
seized >our brother were not enemies of war, al- 
though Louis naturally believed at first that he 
had fallen into the hands of the Germans; which 
supposition disturbed him \ery little." 

"He must ha\e known that his sister \\ould be 
heart-broken!" Betty exclaimed. And her own 
heart stopped for an instant as she realized that 
she had forgotten the part she was placing. But 
Captain Badger, intent upon making a good im- 
pression in his recital, did not notice the slight 
slip, and the girl drew a deeper breath as he con- 

"L'ndoubtedl)' he did feel lor his sister," the 
officer said, "but he was fully aware that the great 
conflict was near its end and thought that word 
would be .sent of his safety, in accordance with 
the usual etiquette obser\ed toward the enemy by 
members of the aviation service, e\'en among the 

"But nothing was heard from him?" Betty 
interrupted, with a gesture aimed to counteract 
the efl'ect of her pre\ious mistake. 

"Your brother was not a prisoner of war," the 
captain explained, a trifle impatiently. "He 
was not in the liands of the Germans, but of 

"Robbers!" echoed Belt\', astounded at this 

"Yes. A company of outcasts, recruited from 
all the armies, had seized him," Captain Badger 
returned. "The>- ha\e a safe retreat and are 
ably led. \\ hile the war was on, they had plied 
their trade with little fear of being disturbed. 
Since then, they ha\e been more circtnnspect, btit 
so carefully arc the\- hidden that it will be a long 
time yet before the band is broken tip. Their 
plan is to seize a man who is rich and force him to 
buy his freedom. This, Louis de Soulange, in the 
beginning, refused to do." 

"But how do you know all this?" Bett\' asked. 
She was losing her romantic interest in this nar- 
rative and begiiming to appreciate the more sin- 
ister aspect of the tale she was hearing. More- 
over, a half-formed doubt of this voluble young 
man began to take shape in her mind. 

But Captain Badger was not disconcerted in 
the slightest by this direct question: indeed, his 




answer came so readil>' that it must have been 

"Because I, too, Mademoiselle, was a captive," 
he said plausibly. "They found me a lean fowl 
and hardly worth plucking," he went on with a 
laugh. "If it had been otherwise — if 1 could ha\e 
furnished the means myself, you may be sure I 
should not have crossed the ocean to seek help 
for my friend, Louis de Soulange." 

He spoke with a fine air of sinceril\-, and for 
the moment Betty questioned her growing doubts 
of him; but his ne.xt words brought these crowd- 
ing back into her thoughts. 

"But, seeing that I am poor," he went on, after 
an instant's pause, "I am forced to come to you, 
Louis's sister, for the money necessar>' to obtain 
his release." 

It was now plain what the man wanted, and 
the spirit of frugality' and thrift that Betty had 
inherited from her Powell ancestors was up in 
arms at once. Instinctively she mistrusted his 
moti\es, and the secrec\' with which he had gone 
about the business confirmed her suspicions. 
Moreover, all the family knew that Beatrice had 
arrived in America \er>' short of funds; and al- 
though she seemed to suggest that her brother liatl 
plenty, it was a subject upon which the Freni li 
girl rarely spoke. 

Rapidh' these thoughts passed ilnuugli Bella's 
mind and led her suddenly to a surprising con- 
clusion. She fancied that Captain Badger was 
aware of her identity and was endeavoring to 
work upon her sympathies iu order to obtain 
some of the Powell mone>- for his own ends. For 
the moment she was ready to disbelieve every- 
thing he said, even his statement that Louis was 
alive. On the other hand, she felt that perhaps 
there was information to be gained, and she made 
an effort to conceal her distrust. 

"But I 'ave no money," she said at last, discon- 

"You have no monev!" the man exclaimed, and 
the girl recognized for ihe hrsl time a ring of 
sincerity in his utterance. 

"I 'ave no money at all," she repeated, shaking 
her head sorrowfuUv . 

"Then you did n't bring the strong bo.K with 
you?" Captain Badger questioned, looking keenly 
at the girl beside him. 

"No, I did not," Betty replied positively. To 
be sure she had n't the slightest idea now what 
the man was talking about; but she had seen 
everything B6 had brought with her on the day 
of her arrival at the lodge, and there was noth- 
ing resembling a strong box among her scanty 

"Then where did vou hide it, Mademoiselle?" 
the captain demanded, his voice shaking a little. 

whether from anger or disappointment. Betty 
could not tell. 

Here was a question that was wholh out of her 
power to answer. Be had never mentioned any 
strong box, and though such a thing might easily 
e.xist, its whereabouts was as unknown to Betty 
as to the officer who sought it. 

But Betty was not yet ready to betray igno- 
rance of a matter Btetrice would, presumably, 
have knowledge of. She was \er\' near the edge 
of the precipice, and a false step would certainly 
send her tumbling. She wanted to avoid a direct 
answer to his last question; and while she paused, 
the captain, attributing her hesitation lo other 
causes, spoke again. 

"I see you do not trust me," he said, with a 
shade of reproach in his voice, "nor can I alto- 
gether blame v on. I told Louis it was asking too 
nuicli. But he said to me, — and I quote his very 
words. Mademoiselle, — 'Take the ring, my dear 
George, and that will show her that I have entire 
faith in vou. My sister loves me, and she will 
count monev' but a little thing when ^veighed 
against my life.' On that assurance I have come 
Iu vou." 

Captain Badger strove to convey a feeling of 
tieep sincerity in his words; but Betty, wholly 
unable to satisfv' his demands, also continued to 
hold her doubt of him. 

".\gain let me see the ring," she said, and lield 
out her hand lor it. 

Captain Badger would not give il into her 
hands, but held it in his own fingers for her 

"But I wish il, " the girl insisted. "It is a ring 
of niv' familv'. Vou 'ave no right to keep it." 

"I am surrv', but there I nuisl differ with vou," 
Captain Badger answered. "It was given to me 
in trust. Either it must fulfil its mission or I 
must return it to the man who placed it in my 
hands." With a gesture of finalitv he returned it 
to his pocket. 

"Oh, I seel " Beltv said, rising. "For the ring 
I must tell you vvhere the strong l)OX is 'idden? 
Is that it?" 

"Exactlv, .Mademoiselle 1" The man's teelh 
tiashetl as he stood up beside her. 

"So it is I who must do all the trusting!" Belly 
raised her voice, giv ing rein lo her growing feeling 
of resentment. "I am to give you I know not 
how much, to pay a ransom the amount of which 
you do not tell me. Xou! Xon! Xoii! That is 
my only ai\swer. Monsieur!" 

Captain Badger, fully expecting that his re- 
quest would be complied with sooner or later, fell 
back a pace, whollv' disconcerted. It was as if a 
gentle buttertiv- had suddenly [wunced upon his 
hand and bitten it. For an instant he could find 

19-' l) 



no word lo ^a\ , and Betty made a motion to leave 
him which brought her beside the door of the 

"Mademoiselle!" he cried, hurriedly going to 
her side, "I beg you will not act so hastily. The 
ransom demanded is three hundred thousand 
francs. It was my inten- 
tion, of course, to carry 
the bo.x to Louis so 
that he might pay these 
brigands and keep what 

"Well," remarked 
Betty, shrewdly, entirely 
off her guard, "I 'ni onK 
a girl; but even I can 
see what a sill>- idea that 

For an instant Badger 
cast a suspicious glance 
at her. 

"Mademoiselle speaks 
English like an .Ameri- 
can," he said sigiiifi- 

Betty, though her 
heart beat like a trip- 
hammer, threw up her 
head gamel\'. 

"Always, since I am a 
child, I speak English," 
she retorted. "And now 
that I am in .\merica, I 
impro\e. But what mat- 
ters that? N'ou must find 
a better plan. Captain 
Badger, than to sen' into 
the clutches of these rob- 
bers more than they ask." 

"There is much in 
wiiat you say," Badger 
answered soothingU-; 
"but how can we possibly 
arrange it? Vou, Made- 
moiselle, are here; the 
box — is in France. The 
bandits have a limited 
patience, and, although 
I regret to say it, confinement is bad, even 
the best of constitutions." 

"Is — is Louis ill?" asked Betty? Even while 
she pretended to be his sister, Betty was conscious 
that, in speaking his name, she was being very 
familiar with a marquis. 

"I can hardly say that he is ill," Captain Badger 
replied; "at least, he was not when I left. Indeed, 
my chief fear is that he will grow tired of waiting 
and make some reckless attempt to escape. In 

which case I would not give that for his life." 
The officer snapped his fingers impressively. 

"But he will wait till >ou return," Betty in- 

"It is to be hoped so," Badger rejoined, with 
slight con\iction in his tone, "if I am not too long 

IT, O TK.\GI-.UV yUth.M MV I'OUk HlALi 


■>hh .M..\l l-Aui- 

dela\ed. But if 1 should go back empty- 
handed — " He paused, with a significant shrug 
of his shoulders. 

"Nothing should be done hastily," Betty re- 
plied with firmness. "I nuis' 'a\-e advice in this 
matter. I am only a school-girl, and — " 

"My dear Mademoiselle," Badger cut in 
sharply, "if you talk of seeking advice, then 1 
must laid you good-day. I know the uselessness 
of talk in a matter of this kind. Sooner or later 




it gets into the hands of the police; and when it 
does, I warn you that, instead of saving your 
brother, you will be sending him to his death. 
No, Mademoiselle, I cannot hel|) you if it is \our 
purpose to take others into your confidence. Let 
us come to an luiderstanding. Tell me what I 
ask, or let us end the attair here and now." 

He spoke so resolutely that Betl>' was shaken in 
her conviction that he sought nione>' for hini.-.elf 
and cared not at all for Louis de Soulange. Vet 
in some way she must temporize. At the moment 
she could only repeat the "Non! NonI Non!" she 
had uttered so steadfastly, because she had no 
knowledge of the box he asked for. But she did 
not dare tlismiss the man entirely. She wished 
she could talk to Peg for a moment and consult 
her as to what was to be done; but ut course that 
was impossible. 

"I tell you," she .said, coming to a sudden reso- 
lution, "it is one thing to span' money to save a 
brother; but it is quite another to throw it aw'ay 
and get nothing in return. I 'ave ne\er before 
seen you. It is right that you give me time to 
consider what it is best I do. If joti insist, then 
we are at an end ; but I would like to think well of 

"I '\e no objection to \our thinking," the cap- 
tain replied rather roughly. "It 's talkiw^ I 
won't have. Give me your word that >ou will 
tell no one of what has passed between us." 

"I regret that I may not speak of it and so hn' 
advice; but if you 'ave objection, then I nuis' 
keep silent. I gi\e in>' word. Monsieur." Betty 
could hardh' resist the inii)iilse to turn and grin 
at the spring-house door. 

"Very well," Captain Bad^-r agreed, with no 
very good grace, "to-morrow, at this time, I will 
be liere to meet you. and, till after that meeting, 
you must promise not to reveal the information I 
have given you." 

"1 'a\e already gi\en >ou my word, Monsieur," 
Betty replied. 

"Word of honor.-'" he insisted. 

"Parole d'honneur!" Betty answered, and 
started away. 

As tliey neared the lodge, Captain Badger, as 
if he regretted his insistence, sjjoke half apologet- 

"I know that a Soulange will keep her word," 
he said, "but I feel so strongly about this that I 
nnist again impress upon yoti the great need for 
secrecy. Remember, it is all for Louis's sake. 
Ciood-by till to-morrow. Mademoiselle." 

I le held out a friendly hand, but Betty dropped 
him a slifl" little courtesy. 

"All rn'oir. Monsieur." she murmured with her 
best French intonation, and ran off, to disappear 
ihroiigli the front door. 


l'K(. .A.M) HKri\ lAl.K n OVER 

Bf.ttv had scarcely entered the lodge when Peg, 
having skirted the dri\e and kept the shrubbery 
between herself and Captain Badger, ru.shed pant- 
ing into the house. Her cheeks were scarlet and 
her eyes dancing. 

"\'ou 're the dandy little actress!" she cried, 
bubbling over with excitement. "I did n'l 
know you could do it. Come in here and let 's 
talk." She dragged Betty into the living-room, 
closed all the doors, and flopped down on the 

"Sit, O tragedy queen, and let 's see where 
we 're at. M>' poor head 's buzzing!" 

"1 gave the word of a Soulange that I would n't 
tell an\ thing." Betty said demurely, taking her 
place beside her cousin. She was still under the 
spell of her recent experiences and had not quite 
shaken ofl" the feeling that she was playing a part. 

"That 's all right," Peg answered compla- 
cently. "Vou don't ha\e to tell an\thing. 1 
heard e\ery word of it. ^'ou jiromised not to 
reveal what he told >ou. I noticed that parlicn- 
larl\'; but that does n't pre\ent you from dis- 
cussing it with me." 

"Are you sure of that. Peg?" Betty demanded 
hopefully. She was anxious to talk, if she could 
do so without breaking her promise. "Of course," 
she went on, becoming more and more the normal 
Betty, "he never suspected that \<>n were ii\ the 
spring-house and thought if I ditl n't tell an\liody 
w hat he sai<l to me, I could n't discuss it." 

"IL.xactly!" agreed Peg. "But as long as I 
know the facts alrcad>', you 're not betra\ing an>' 
confidences. Now let 's get down to business." 
Peg wriggled into the corner of the sofa and 
wrinkled her forehead. i)re]3arator>- to deep thinlc- 

"It is C|uite plain the man w.uils niuney !" 
Betty declared. 

"There 's no duuljt about that. He said so," 
Peg agreed. "But the (|ueslion is, how are we 
going to get it for him.-'" 

"Why, I should n't think of gi\ing him an\- 
thing," Betty ])roteste(i xehemently. "We ha\e 
no proof but his word — " 

"There 's the ring," Peg interrupted. "He 
must have got that from Louis de Soulange." 

"How do you know- he did?" Betty argued. 
"He may have found it. It might ha\-e been 

"That 's possible, but very unlikeK'," Peg 
answered. "Besides, suppose he had found it, 
how would he ha\e known it was the Soulange 

"He said he was a friend," Bett\- put in; but 


THK LrCK OI' dl:neuool) 


seeing that this suggestion was contran,' to hci" 
previous statement, she added, "I don't beiic\e 
it, though." 

"1 'm not sure," Peg nuised. "Tiiere were 
times when I thought he was telling the truth, 
and times when 1 did n'l helie\e a word he said. 
There 's certainK a strong box somewhere; hul 
o( course \ou r.ui'l Irll him where il is, because 
you don't know ." 

"I should n'l it 1 did know ," Hrii\ insisted. 

"I would," I'cg said evenh . 

"But that would be perfectK foolish!" lUlt>- 
exclaimed heatedly. "We lia\ e nolhing to |>ro\(' 
he would n't just take the mone\' and keep il .iiul 
ne\er go near Louis." 

"We 'd have lo Like risk," I'vj^ replied. 
"We could try, ol coursi', lo get .some guarantee 
out of ihi.s Captain Badger, (hough I don't be- 
lie\ I- he 'd give us any. But there 's no use talk- 
ing about that till we hud mit where the box is." 

"Do \iin Mippose Be knows ainlliiiig about 
it?" Bett\ asked. 

"I should n'l wiiiiilci', " I'eg replied. "It 
.secnis quite jirobable lo me that, during the war, 
Louis would want to have a lot of ready money 
hidden awa>' somewhere for Be's sake, in case 
c\erything went lo smash. Of course, it was put 
away carefiillv so that the Cernians coulrl n't 
find it." 

"That 's so," Betty admitted. "And the only 
wa\' Captain Badger could know of its existence 
would be from Louis. Maybe he 's telling the 
truth afUT all." 

"The thing that does n't seem right to me," 
Peg remarked slowK', "is this tale about a band 
of outcasts. He talked as if they were capturing 
officers by the dozen and making them pay ran- 
soms. If that were true, the whole band would 
have so much money they would n't know what to 
do with it. Why should they bother to send all 
the way to .Xmerica? If I were a bandit, I 'd 
do things quicker than that." 

"I never thought of being a bandit," Betty 
remarked. "It must be rather exciting." 

".And there 's another thing," Peg contimied, 
without heeding her cousin's words, "if there 
were as many people getting themselves ransomed 
as this captain says there are, you 'd think some 
of them would get together and go after the 
brigands, would n't you? They 'd know where 
they were hiding and — " 

"Why of course the\- would 1" Betty inter- 
rupted, as this idea impressed itself upon her. 
"I said all the time he was n't telling the truth." 

"But then you see," Peg went on, trying to 
think the matter out logically, "it 'is n't iin|irob- 
able that Louis de Soulange is really being held for 
a ransom and there m,i\ not be an\ band at all." 

"That dcies n't make sense," Betty put in, 
quite bewildered for the moment. "There 's 
either a band of robbers or there is n'l. That 's 

"(.>h. no, it is n't," Pegreloited picnuplK. "Il 
does 111 lake a band to hold one man. Two or 
three could do it easily, and keep watch day and 

"That 's so," Bettx' admitled reluctanti\. "I 
l)eiieve you 're right. I thought all the time there 
was something in what Captain Badger was 

".\iid if there are oiiK two or three men mixed 
up in it," ['eg went on, as if talking lo lierself, 
"then thev did n't c.ipture this British officer, as 
he says thev- did; in which rase, how does he come 
to know all alioiil il? That 's what 's bolhering 

She paused a monu'iil, ,iiid Bellv' looked at her 
with growing admiration. .She could n't see 
where Peg's line of reasoning was carrying her, 
bill thev- seemed to be arriving somewhere. 

"I.ouis inighl have sent him word and asked for 
help," Bellv- suggested. 

"I'hen Captain Badger would have said so," 
Peg returned, "instead of which he tells 3011 he 
was a victim of these brigands. There 's only 
one way I can figure it out." 

"What 's that?" asked Betty, eagerly. 

"Captain Badger himself is the one who has 
kidnapped Louis de Soulange," announced Peg 
with conviction. 

"\'ou mean — you mean that he 's a brigand, " 
stuttered Bettv-, "and that I 've been talking to 

"Sure!" replied Peg. "The more I think of it, 
the more certain I am." 

"Oh dear, oh dear!" Bettv- began half tearfullv', 
emitting a sobbing laugh at the same time. "I ve 
been sitting with a robber and a bandit, and I 
never guessed il. I should have died of fright if 
I 'd known it — and to-morrow I 've promised to 
talk to him again and — and — But I can't do it. 
Peg! Can't you see I can't do it? It would be 
awful and — " 

"Hold on!" cried Peg, starting to rise. "If 
you 're going to have hysterics, I 'II have to pour 
water on your giddy head. Stop giggling!" 

Peg's threat had the desired effect, and Betty 
pulled herself together. 

".Ml the same, I sha'n't meet him to-morrow — 
I just could n't!" 

"W'e 'II cross that bridge when we come to it," 
Peg replied comfortabh'. "Meanwhile, we '11 have 
to find out from Be where that strong box is, 
without letting her know what for. .Xnd that 
is n't going to be very easy." 

"I think vou ought lo talk il over with I-'alhcr 




before you do anything else," Betty suggested 
practicall>'. "We would have no right to hand 
over an>' Soulange valuables." 

Peg nodded her head in agreement. 

"Of course," she said, "but I have n't had an%' 
time. I did telephone him this morning before 
you were up, and I told Captain Badger to go to 
see him; but you see he did n't go, and I 'ni trving 
to get it straightened out in my head before 1 
begin to talk it over with Cousin Bart. But what- 
e\'er happens, we can't shout about it over the 
'phone. Be would be sure to come in right in the 
middle of it. Cousin Bart will have to meet us 

"He 's always home earh' on Saturda>', so we 
can see him o\'er there — outside somewhere, where 
we won't get flu. That would be better than 
having him come here, " Bett\" said, rising. 

"Don't you want to tell him about it?" Peg 
inquired, as they mo^•ed together toward the door 
on their way to the telephone in the hall. "It 
is n't all my party, you know." 

"I can't," Betty returned. "I 've promised not 

"That 's so." Peg agreed. ".\11 right. I '11 
see if he won't send o\er for us. Now \ou run 
upstairs and entertain Be while I m talking. We 
don't want her to hear what 's going on. We just 
can't run the risk >et." 

Bettj' ran up the stair, and Peg took down the 
telephone recei\er. She had a thorough realiza- 
tion of the seriousness of the situation and was 
more than ready to shift the responsibilit\- upon 
older shoulders; but she thought it entirely prob- 
able that the fate of Louis de Soulange would be 
determined by the wa>' Captain Badger was 
treated, and, had she possessed the amoimt of the 
ransom demanded, her inclination would ha\e 
been to hand it to the man at once. But she felt 
also the force of Bett>'s contention that the\' had 
no way of holding the officer to his word. Prob- 
abl>- her Cousin Bart would know how to meet 
that difificulty, and she was most anxious to lay 
the entire matter before him. 

She was connected with Mr. Powell's office 
promptU', but was surprised b>- the information 
that he had already' gone home. 

"Is n't that rather unusual?" she asked. 

"I don't think he was feeling x'ery well." came 
the answer, and with a "Thank \ou," Peg rang 

"Be is n't in her room," Betty said, as she re- 
turned to Peg. "What did Father sa>?" 

"He 's gone home," Peg replied. "They said 
he was n't feeling \er\- well." 

"I bclie\e lie 's got the flu now!" cried Bctt\', 
and. as if in confirmation of this presentiment, 
Selma came into the hall. 

"Oh, you are there!" exclaimed the maid. 
"There are messages. Miss Travers, she has 
gone to Chestnut Hill. They send for her be- 
cause Mr. Powell, he is in bed with this flu. The 
nurse have it herself ver\- much. These nurses 
they are no good! " 

"Oh, poor .Mother!" cried Betty, in dismay. 
Peg was quite as sympathetic, but she could n't 
help wondering a little what would happen now 
that .Mr. Powell could not be consulted in regard 
to Be's affairs. W ho else was there to whom she 
could go for ad\ice? The two older Powell bo>s 
were at college. Mr. Powell's partner was an 
invalid who had not been active in the business 
for years; and she could think of no one else, 
on whose ad\ice she could rely, to whom she felt 
free to go. 

-And to-morrow, in twent> -four hours, Captain 
Badger would expect to recei\e his answer. 

"Oh, Betty," she murmured, "what are we 
going to do?" 



When Beatrice, on hearing the door of the spring- 
house being pushed open, had allowed the trap- 
door abo\e her head to settle genth- in place, she 
crouched down upon the narrow step. She 
could hear a muffled footfall upon the paving, 
the faint creek of the rust>' door hinges, and then 
all was silent. 

She sat for a time quite motionless, with her 
ears strained to catch further sounds. Not 
hearing an\thing, she fell to speculating as to her 
future course. She would, of course, tell Peg 
at once, and together the>- would set about their 
exploration at the first opportunit>' that offered; 
but until this was accomplished, she wished to 
run no risk of her disco\'er\" being made public, 
for in that case it would gel to the knowledge of 
Miss Maple, who. Be was .'^ure. would take prompt 
measures to stop their in\estigations. The more 
she considered the matter, the more determined 
she became to lie concealed until she could escape 

As she sat tr>ing to make up her mind that 
whoe\er had come into the siiring-housc must 
have gone again, so quiet was it. she became 
aware of the distant murmur of voices. The 
sound came \er\' fainth', ceasing for a moment, 
only to begin again a moment later. By most 
attentive listening she concluded it was a man 
who spoke; but she could not catch a sellable of 
his words or the reply to them. Nothing but a 
gentle humming came to her, and she concluded 
that whoe\er it was must be outside of the house. 

"It must be two of the gardeners." she thought 




to herself; "they won't stay long." And she 
settled herself to wait patientK- till the>- went 

But the voice droned on and Beatrice began to 
grow cramped b\- her position. She gazed down 
and became aware of a gra\- blur at the bottom of 
the steps, as if a wandering ray of light had strayed 
in to brighten the gloom of the tunnel. Also, 
now that her eyes had grown accustomed to the 
darkness, she could see that the floor of the pass- 
age was onh' a few feet 
below her, and her curi- 
osity' was aroused once 
more. As long as she 
\\as forced to remain 
hidden, there was no 
reason why she should 
not do a little explor- 
ing by herself, and, with 
much caution against 
making a noise, she halt - 
lowered herself down the 
two or three steps to the 
bottom. Then she stood 
up and bumped her head 
against the roof. 

"Mafoi." was her men- 
tal exclamation, "this was 
not made for tall men like 
me!" And she rubbed 
the spot that for a mo- 
ment ached sharpK . 

Then she looked about 
her, trying to distin- 
guish something of her 
surroundings, but there 
was not enough light 
to see anxthing clearly. 
The dim gra\ness seemed 

to come from a point farther along the narrow 
passage and slie adxanced toward it. 

With bowed head, and with hands stretched 
out before her, she mo\ed cautioush', feeling 
carefully with her feet before she ventured to 
take a forward step. Slowly she progressed 
until she came at length to the spot of greatest 

E\en here Be could make out little save a 
llight of stone steps leading up to another door 
that seemed shadow}- and unsubstantial in the 

She stopped a moment and looked up, trying 
to get her bearings and to calculate where she 
might be tiow in relation to the big house. The 
faint light she saw came through slits in the 
masonry that were almost filled with the accumii- 
l.ited dust of >'ears. E\-identl\- these openings 
coulfl Udt be underground, and she argued 

they inust be in the massive walls of Denewood 
itself, in which case she had traversed the distance 
from the spring-house to the mansion, and from 
here on would mount to the second stor>' until 
.she came out in the shallow space behind the 
hobs in the nursen,' fireplace which her little 
ancestress Peggy Tra\-ers had found. 

Beatrice was uncertain whether to go on or to 
wait till she could explore the place thoroughly 
with her cousin, but the steps seemed to invite 


her to climl) them and, thinking just to peep at 
what la\' behind the door, she mounted them 

It grew darker as she went up, and when her 
groping hands met a barrier across her path she 
was forced to depend almost wholl>' on her sense 
of touch. Feeling nothing but rough planks 
under her fingers, she groped about for a knob or 
handle with which to open the heavy door. But 
she could find nothing of the sort. 

"I mus' push it," she thought. But the stout 
timbers refused to yield to her efforts. 

"Hum!" murmured Be, puzzled, "per'aps it is 
not a door at all, but a built-up partition, cutting 
off the passage from the house," 

This idea seemed so \cry probable that the 
girl felt a sharp sensation of disappointment, but 
she rallied her courag<\ determined not to be cast 
(low II loo r|iM'i kly. 



"1 mus' 'avc a liglit," she t^aid to lieihclf, "ihcn 
il will be all right." 

She turned and went down the stairs slowU 
and started on iier return journcx- under ground. 
But this time she had her hack lo the faint ra\s 
coming in through the slits, and ahead of her the 
passage was jet black. Step by step she picked 
her way until at length she came to an abrupt 
stop against a wall. Realizing that .she nnist 
have reached the end, she lelt about and found 
steps leading up. 

CarefulK" she climbed, lifting her head with 
caution until her hair brushed lighth- against the 
roof; then she held her breath, listening intentb' 
for the sound of the ^'o^ce that had kept her in 

hiding. .\ll was still. The speakers, whoever they 
might be, had evidently gone, and Beatrice de- 
cided that now was the time for her to make her 
escape unseen. 

She raised her arms and pushed against the 
stones above her head, e.xpecling to lift the little 
door easily; but nothing moved, and tlie girl, 
bracing her feet against the narrow stejis, pushed 
harder, onh' lo feel the .same rigidity. In a sud- 
den panic, Beatrice thrust upward with all her 
might, but still no door o]X'ned: and after a 
period of useless and Irantic effort, she sank 
breathless in a little hea[) on the rough steps. 

"I am caught," she nnirmured in despair, "and 
nobodv knows where to look for lue!" 

tTu lit- continued) 



A BULBIL is — hush, voungstei's, hush! — 
"\ hrachv'podine liabbling thrush." 

To bullate is to boil. I '11 \ci\\ . 

^'ou did n't know that, did \ou now? 

.■\ binnnidlo 's a kind of tish 
Which Hindus think a daint\- dish. 

-A clathrodictvon is <i sort 

Of coral rock — to init it short. 

.\nd now again a page we turn 

In search ot something else to le.irn. 

To dov'st is but to take a fall. 
Did \ou know that before, at all? 

.\ burbot is another kind. 

Which has a long, long fm behind. 

A bunder is a landing-stage. 
.And now suppose we turn a page. 

.A citril is a sort of bird 

Of which, till now, >ou have n't heard; 

To clarigate is to recite 

.\ list of wrongs you wish to right; 

The ecderon 's the outer skin; 
.\ fonduk is a sort of inn; 

.A gledge is just a knowing look — 
Thus we could go on through the book 

.Absorbing much of information 
.\nd adding to our education; 

But we nuist sto)) — it 's necessary 
That 1 return this dictionarv. 



)y Adeline K.Mac6ilvd.rY 

Roii Crank's room-inaU- al 
Shiui;leton's was his idol and 
hem — Wall is Wallace; of 
course, a imich older bo\-, a 
senior, in fart, and the leading 
allilele and all-ronnd cham- 
pion of ihe school. 

It was by a great stroke of 
ihick. Bob thonght, that Ik- 
hatl happened to fall into such 
a desirable situation, anil he 
,,„,,; naturall>' made Wallis his 

father confessor and ad\iser. Bob was \er\- con- 
scientious, which \va.s one of the traits the older 
fellow liked in him. Wallis took the world rather 
seriousl)', too, and so ne\er cracked a smile when 
Bob sat down before him one da>' and asked: 
"Do you think it 's wrong to steal sugar?" 
"Depends," was the answer, he had a 
good notion what was in the little fellow's mind. 
"You know what they do," Bob continued; 
"they scoop out their buns and fill them witli 
sugar. Is n't that plain stealing?" 

"Well," replied the senior, thoughtfulK- rubbing 
his nose, "the fellows have been doing it for gen- 
erations and the faculty is wise to it. It is n't done 
in an underhand wa\', so I don't see any harm in 
it, to tell you the truth." 

His conscience lulled to rest Ity this assurance, 
Bob bounded off to communicate an idea to his 
favorite classmates who were congregated on the 
steps in front of their dormitory. 

"Come close, fellows!" he called, waving his 
arms with an inward, sweeping motion. "Here 's 
a dandy scheme I 've got!" 

There were fi\"e bo>s, his pet cronies, who 
quickly obeyed the sunnnons. 

"You know old Tom Jimiper?" he began, nam- 
ing the colored man who worked on the place. "I 
was talking to him the other day and got a good 
tip from him. He says to take ripe, sound per- 
simmons, put sttgar on them, and leave them for a 
while, and you '11 have the best-tasting candied 
fruit you ever ate in your life." 

The bo>s had a good-sized hoard of sugai', 
which they had obtained by means of llie bun 
route. Each boy was allowed to take one bun 
from the breakfast-table to refresh him during the 
morning recess. The\' were nice, crusty buns with 
soft centers, and. as Bob said, the boys had a way 
of scooping out the centers — which tiiey never 
wasted, howexer — and filling tlie hoUowed-otit 

pLuc with sugar. Generall>-, the little individual 
hoards would be pooled and a grand feast of fudge 
stirred tip by Spindle Kirby, the fudge expert of 
the class. 

Spindle never failed, — his fiidge was always 
smooth and e.xcellent, — while Bob's scheme was 
iMitried and uncertain, so it took a lot of persua- 
sion and eloquence on Bob's part to get the others 
to gi\e u]) their lioards for the purpose he pro- 
jjosed. .\t last Spindle himself agreed and the 
otheis followed. 

Tlie next da>- being clear and cold after a frosty 
night, the six went out after per.simmons, and by 
their united efforts succeeded in bringing back 
over a bushel. They brought them all up to Bob's 
r(j(jm, the upijer-classman lieing awas*. 

"The question is." said Dick Hollander, the 
class jjessimist, "now that you 've got it, what 're 
> uu going to do with it? It 's an awful lot of stuff. 
We have n't anything half big enough to hold it." 

"The bath-tub would be jtist the thing," sug- 
gested Pete Rainey, "but I suppose there 'd be 

"Aw, nobody uses the tub!" .said Spindle. 
"Long 's the showeis are working, the tub 's just 
an ornament." 

"Mrs. Chase would n't stand for it," Dick said. 

"No, she would n't," agreed Bob, who had once 
tested the housekeeper's endurance b>' trying to 
kee]) water-snakes in the hand-basin. 

Meanwhile, Toby Collins had been searching 
the room with his keen gray eye, which was now 
fixed on an object under the window. 

"Why don't \ou put them in your trunk?" he 
suggested. "Would n't hurt it if you put good 
stout jiaper down first." 

"That is n't m>- trunk." Bob said. "It 's Wal's. 
That 's mine." 

Toby went and examined Bob's. 

"Very flimsy," was hi^ Ncrdict; "nothing but 
canvas over rattan. It would n't keep the air out. 
My mother always says you have to keep the air 
out when you 're preserving fruit." 

"That 's right," Spindle corroborated; "air 
spoils fruit." 

Wallis's tnuik was a new one — black and sliiny 
on the otitside, the inside being lined with fine 
linen. It had a very air-tight appearance. It was 
also empty, and Wallis used it for a window-seat, 
with two handsome cushions on top. 

"I don't think we 'd better use his," Bob pro- 
tested, as his companions examined the trunk. 




"It would n't hurt it," said Spindle. "We 11 
put plent\' of papers down, and we won't put 
any but sound persimmons in. They '11 probably 
candy hard as rocks. I had some once from Japan 
and they were fine — just like gum-drops." 


"He 'd skin you alive if his new trunk was 
spoiled," remarked Dick, cheerfully. 

"Well, it is n't going to be spoiled, so shut up!" 
cried Toby. 

"Have n't any of you fellows got a trunk?" 
asked Bob. "I don't like to use his without an\- 
say so." 

They had trunks, but none of them would do: 
Toby's room-mate was "nosey"; Pete's and 

Spindle's trunks were full; Dick's was broken; and 
Silent Turk Hemmingway's smelt of moth-balls. 

"We '11 give him se\eral pounds," said Spin- 
dle. "He '11 be tickled when he gets a whiff of 
them when they 're done!" 

"I '11 get some tough 
paper," Pete volunteered. 
"Nobody 'd guess ^\hat 
was inside," the Silent 
Turk put in. 

They took the tray out 
and laid in the bottom 
some brown paper which 
Pete had fetched from 
his room. On this the per- 
simmons were arranged 
— a layer of fruit, then a 
generous layer of sugar, 
and so on. Down came 
the lid at last and the 
deed was done. 

"How long will it lake, 
I wonder?" Bob asked, 
rearranging the pillows 
on top. 

"A couple of weeks, 
I 'd say," opined Toby, 
whose mother was always 
sending him delicious 
jams and who therefore 
was considered some- 
thing of an authority. 

.\t first. Bob secretly 
worried oxer the persim- 
mons being in their un- 
in\ited resting-place; bu I 
as the days rolled b\', 
other interests look his 
mind from them. In fact, 
he had almost forgotten 
about them when one 
evening, as he was going 
to bed, W'allis, who sat 
studying at the table, 
pawned, stretched, and 
e.\clainRd, "Well, I 'm 
through boning this 
night!" -Then he got up 
and went to the window, 
opened it, sat down on his trunk, and looked 
out into the beautiful night. 

He sat silent awhile shufHing iiis feet. He 
kept shuffling and shufffing until it got on Bob's 
ner\es so that if it had been any one else but 
Wallis, there would ha\e been some sharp words. 
.\s it was. Bob la\' awake watching his hero's 
handsome profile against the window. Shuffle, 
shuffle, shufHc! Wal surely had the fidgets. He 



seemed to realize it hinisell. all ol a sudden, and 
looked down. 

"What the dickens!" he muttered. "1 feel 's if 
I was all gummed up in the feet. Just turn on 
that light, will you?" 

Even then Bob did not think ol persinunons as 
he reached up and turned the switch. 

"Look at this!" exclaimed W'allis. "There 's a 
kind of a puddle here by my trunk!" 

Then Bob remembered, and a cold chill ran 
down his spine! He felt all was not well with his 

W'allis was stooping 
over. "It 'sgummy !"lie 
announced in a puzzled 
tone. "It 's oozing oui 
of my trunk!" 

He hurriedly thn-u 
off his prized pillows 
and began to e.\plore. 
Out came the tray, and 
there, spread before his 
astonished eses, was a 
vast sticky e.\pai>se of 
something like molas- 
ses, with unsterious 
lumps in it! 

"Holy mackerel !" e.\- 
claimed W'allis, rage 
and surprise mingling 
in his breast. He rose 
to his full six feet and 
turned an accusing e\e 
on the bed of his room- 
mate. It was empty. 
Bob, a lightning dress- 
er, had domied his 
trousers and fled. 

W allis did not de- 
mean himself to pur- 
sue. He closed the trunk and went lo bed, biding 
his time. 

Bob, meanwhile, had gone to his friends with the 
awful tidings. 

"The stufl has n't candied," he e.\plained; "it 's 
oozing out!" 

"I thought it would," nmrmured Dick. 

"But it is n't your fault," said Pete. 

Finally Spindle said: "I 'II go back with you 
later and explain. Better wait a couple of hours." 

So it was long after "hours" when two figures 
slid into W'al's room. 

"Are you awake, sir?" a meek voice inquired. 

"Not only sneaky, but a coward," growled a 
scornful bass from the bed. 

"I 'm sorry," Bob said in a more manl> lone, 
"and I '11 save up and buy you anotlier trunk if it 
takes me twenty years!" 

"I '11 need it before that," W'al replied. 

"W'e '11 clean it up," put in Spindle, cheerfully. 
"It 's such a fine trunk a little syrup could n't 
hurt it." 


"Honest, W'al, we did n't know it would do any 
harm and we meant to surprise you." 

"You 've succeeded!" 

"Well, you can come on and give me a couple of 
good ones whenever you 've a mind to," ofifered 
Bob. "Me too," said Spindle. 


"That 's just w hat 1 'II do if \ ou two don't shut 
up and let me sleep," was the reply — rather 
grouch\ , to be sure, but Bob knew his hero. The 
incident was closed. 

Next day Bob and his friends attacked the 
trunk energetically, and, after much effort, re- 
stored it almost to its original state. After which, 
armed with spoons, they gathered around a 
strange collection of pans, chafing-dishes, hand- 
basins, glasses, cups, and other vessels, and began 
a grand and glorious feast composed of persimmon 

"Fudge for mine!" was Spindle's choking ver- 
dict after se\'eral spoonsful. 

"All it needed was a little more sugar," Pete 
said. "I 'd like to try my luck at it, but my trunk 
is full. Can't one of you fellows spare one?" 

Nobody could. 





The following morning Paul had a glimpse of a 
side of jungle travel which was new lo liim. One 
of the Bovianders had been bitten by \anipire- 
bats during the night, and was so weakened b\' 
the loss of blood that he was unable lo lake his 
accustomed place that day at the paddle. 

This is a rather common occurrence in the 
South American tropics, but is easily guarded 
against by sleeping within the light of a tire or 
lantern. Unfortunately for the half-breed, the 
oil lantern, which had been hung beneath their 
temporary palm-leaf shelter, flickered out during 
the early hours, and he had been the recipient of a 
visit from these bloodthirsty bats. 

The vampire of the Guianas is a small beast, 
scarcely twice as large as our own tiny house-bat, 
but of most savage instincts. Doubtless they feed 
on the juices of fruit, perhaps on insects, but the 
desire for warm blood is uppermost. Dogs sufter 
greatly, the puppies in particular; so do chickens. 
Horses and cattle are bitten on the withers, be- 
tween their shoulders out of reach of their tails; 
these wounds become infected and sometimes 
cause death. But as far as I have observed, 
only domesticated animals are attacked; the wild 
beasts are immune, or know how to care for 

The bat alights softly on its sleeping victim 
and crawls to the desired spot; on a man, this is 
generally his great toe, if it protrudes from 
beneath his blanket, though an arm or any other 
portion of his body will do if that choice morsel 
is hidden. I laving reached the ])oint of operation, 
the bat's needle-like canine teeth penetrate the 
skin so gently and so gradually that the sleeper 
is not aroused by any sudden twinge of pain. 
Others, attracted by the prospect of a meal, hover 
above, and when the first has satisfied itself, a 
second takes its place; or it may niake another 
incision on a different portion of the body. 

The Bo\iander had been bitten twice, and the 
wounds had bled freely during the night. There 
was nothing to do but to disinfect the tiny holes 
and allow him to remain a passenger in ihe 
bateau throughout the day. By the ne.xt morn- 
ing he would be all right. 

Paul saw the reason now why his hanunock had 
been incased in light mosciuito-itctting. It so 
happens that mosquitos are rather scarce in that 
bit of forest, and he had wondered, on turning in, 

at the needless precaution. He had received his 

A week went by. They had traversed thirty 
miles of river. Imagine — thirty miles in seven 
days! But there were numerous rapids lo sur- 
mount, some separated from each other by only a 
few hundred yards of calm water. One cataract, 
a stretch of broken water two miles long, delayed 
them three da\s. Bui at the end of the week, 
with a decrease in tlie niunber of rapids, their 
progress became faster. 

At the close of the second week lhe>- had made 
ninel>' miles against the current and were ap- 
proaching their destination, a narrow creek which 
turned westward. All signs of human habitation 
had been left behind. For the last twenty miles 
not even a lonely Indian benab had graced the 
river bank. 

The bo\s had been deeply interested in these 
native habitations. Generally, instead of a sin- 
gle benab, there was a cluster of half a dozen huts 
gathered beneath a greenheart on a bluff which 
overlooked the ri\er. Alwa>s, tethered to the 
bank, were the inevitable dugout canoes. The 
benabs were usually without walls and consisted 
of four poles stuck in the groiuid, on which rested 
a palm-thatched roof. 

Within these shelters they could see grass- 
woven hammocks stretched, and little fires burn- 
ing, beside which crouched figures of women 
preparing cassava or wea\ing. The men oc- 
cupied the hammocks. Naked children splashed 
in the water and made faces at them as they 

Once, when they had landed, the entire village 
had fled to the shelter of the jimgle, and even 
W'a'na had much trouble to entice them back. 

On the afternoon of the sixteenth day they 
camped at the mouth of the creek which was to 
carry them to the end of their quest. 

Paul and Fred, as was their custom upon land- 
ing for the day, chose a line with their compasses 
and set off on a collecting-trip, breaking twigs as 
they advanced to mark the way for the return 
journey to camp. The contour of the country 
was little altered from what it had been at their 
first camp above the falls; the hills were higher, 
but, if anything, it was less rocky. 

When barely out of sight of camp, they jumped 
a small brocket deer, which Paul by a fortunate 
shot dropped in its tracks. Flated b\- his suc- 
cess, the stout boy dragged his game back to 
camp, telling Fred that he would rotiu-n dirccth-. 




Hdrdl\' had his rliuni (li^appeared when ihi- 
other Ijccamc aware nl a rustling oxerlu-ad, and 
was deluged by a shower of falling dirt. Chok- 
ing, ho stepped away from the dust>' cloud which 
enxeloped hini and looked up lor the cause of the 
disturbance. It was not hard to hud. 

ThirtA' feet. abo\c, plastered against tlu- trunk 
of a large tree, hung a big termites' nest. In a 
crotch just above it was a reddish animal about 
the size of an Irish terrier, with a long thin snout 
and projecting claws se\eral inches in length. 
It was these claws, tearing at the nest lielow, 
which were resjionsible for his discomfort. 

Fred hesitated to shoot. He recognized the 
creature as the lesser ant-eater of the (niianas, 
the taniandu, or, as it is locally named, the 
"yexi." and wished to see it at work. The gentle 
beast, unafraid of his presence or of the gunshot 
a few minutes before, dug its four-clawed feet 
into the shell of dried mud and wrenched off a 
huge chunk. Then, lowering its bod\', clinging 
downward, partly by ht)oking its rear claws into 
a cre\ice in the bark and partly by winding its 
long prehensile tail about the trunk, it thrust its 
narrow snout into the opening, which F"red could 
see was alive with hurrying termites. 

He .saw the thin red tongue dart out and lick 
over the bitsy swarm. \\ hen it was withdrawn, 
it carried with it a hundred of the tiny workers. 
Again and again it flicked out, like the darting 
tongue of a snake, and each time returned with 
a full load. Presently that portion of the nest 
was cleared and the claws again tore at the mud 

The movements of the tamandu were slow and 
wearied. It seemed bored to death by the whole 
proceeding, and, sloth-like, took its time about 
it. As Fred approached a little closer to obtain 
a better view-, it desisted in its attacks and turned 
a tiny, inquiring eye upon him as if to ask, "Well, 
what can I do for you.-'" 

"Nothing at all, thanks," mocked the bo\', as 
if the ant-eater had really spoken. "You 're 
the queerest looking duck I 've seen for many a 

At his words the creature blinked and turned 
its back on him, ignoring his presence while it 
worked. Much delighted by this show of utter 
indiflerence, Fred tossed a stone at the nest. It 
struck true, six inches below the protruding snout. 
The tamandu ceased its licking of termites, threw 
a reproachful glance at him, and departed leisurely 
to the crotch above, where it rolled itself into a 
ball and went to sleep. Laughing, Fred withdrew 
to a convenient log. He could not shoot that 
ant-eater, even for the sake of science. 

Five minutes later he was aroused by a scratch- 
ing of branches. It was not the tamandu, for 

that indifferent creature was still in the land of 
slumber, but came from another tree some yards 
distant. Presently a band of small squirrel - 
monke\s appeared, advancing in single tile in his 
direction. There were fully thirty in the troupe, 
and their path led along a limb which stretched 
but a few yards abo\e him. 

He did not shoot; "sakiwinkis" were plentiful, 
and he had no desire to kill one. If only wounded, 
probabU- it would fall to the ground and stare at 
him with weeping eyes; dashing away the tears 
with one little paw, it would innocently hold up 
its hurt as if asking for his caress. He had seen 
that before, and it had been too much for him. 

The>' scrambled through a small spreading tree 
which was literally co\ered with vines. The 
lianas were massed so thick that the outline of 
the trunk was entireh' hidden by the draper>' of 
creepers, to the tangle of which was added an 
accumulation of dead leaves and rotten wood 
from the branches abo\e. The squirrel-monkeys 
headed straight for this dense clump, and Fred 
saw them spread out to feed on the luscious wild 
hgs which spotted the vines. 

Suddenly there was a commotion in their ranks, 
a scattering of lea^■es, a dislodging of dead wood, 
a snarl, and the monkeys scampered chattering 
to the upper branches. A small tawny body 
had sprung among them from its hiding-place 
near the trunk. There was a squeal of pain as 
the beast seized one of the monkeys. 

Fred's gun snapped angrily to his shoulder, 
and taking hasty aim, he fired. A half-human 
cry echoed the shot, and the sa\age creature 
bounded from the tree, carrying the dead saki- 
winkis with it. As it touched the ground, the 
indignant boy fired again. The animal bounded 
into the air as if tossed by springs, then threshed 
among the bushes until its struggles gradually 

Fred discovered that he had killed an ocelot. 
Instead of ha\ing a pure tawny body, as he had 
thought at first, it was covered with black spots, 
like a diminutive leopard. Itsslim, lithe body was 
four feet in length, counting the long tail ; without 
it, the beast measured l)arel\' half that. 

Mightily pleased with himself, the hunter 
slung the cat by the tail over his shoulder, and, 
gathering the mangled sakiwinkis, started for 
camp. If he met Paul, it would now be the turn 
of that indixidual to wait. 

As camp was scarcely three hundied yardsaway 
he had but a short distance to walk. About two 
thirds of it had been co\ered when he saw Paul 
approaching at a fast gait, exidently anxious to 
.see what his chum had shcil. Fred dropped his 
load and stood waiting. 

But Paul did not reach his friend. 




Fiftj- yards away he halted sharply, then 
backed hurriedly off from some object on the 
ground. Again he approached it, cautiously 
this time, and stared for several moments. A 
second time, with what looked like a shudder to 

\VH.\1 Ki; VOU DOIN' THUKE? UE.VTl.N' .\ KVGf 

Fred, he backed fearfull>- away, keeping his eyes 
fixed on the object. When questioned afterward, 
he declared that he only shrugged his shoulders 
and walked away contemptuoush-. But that was 
Paul's story. This is how Fred saw it. 

At a safe distance from the thing, the stout 
lioy paused beside a tall sapling, and. bending it 
down, scxered it with his liunting-knife. Pres- 
ently he iiad in his hands a long t\vcnt\-loot 

pole. Raising this upright o^er his head, he 
advanced cautiously and with hesitation, linger- 
ing over each step, in the direction of the hidden 
object, ^^"hen within thirty feet of it, his prog- 
ress slowed to inches and \\-ith long interv'als 
between steps. Once he 
paused irresolutely, and 
made a motion to fling 
away his pole and flee, 
but, thinking better of it, 
urged himself forward. 

.\t twenty feet he again 
[)aused and measured the 
distance with his e\r-. 
Xo; it still seemed too far 
off. Two feet more and 
he halted abruptly. Ap- 
parently that was as near 
as he cared to approach. 
The pole wa\ered in the 
air, but he hesitated to 
let it descend. Then, 
nerving himself on and 
gritting his teeth, — Fred 
could see him do that, 
— he brought the sap- 
ling down with all his 

There was a thud and 
a rustling of leaves. A 
second time Paul lifted 
the pole and again down 
it thumped. The rust- 
ling decreased, but the 
blows continued with ris- 
ing fury. 

The curiosity of the 
w a t c h i n g b o >• w a s 
strained to the bursting 
point. When he could 
>tandit nolongerhestart- 
ed forward, demanding: 
"What 're >ou doin' 
there? Beatin' a rug?" 
.\t the sound of his 
\oice the large boy de- 
sisted in his etTorts and 
turned with a start. 
"That you. Skinny? 
No; I 've got a snake here. Did n't want to 
spoil it by shooting, so used a stick to kill it." 

"Why did n't \ou use a mora, while >ou were 
about it?" 

Paul glanced at the sapling and grinned rather 
.^hcepishh'. Suddenl>- he grew indignant. 

"I don't see what a mora 's got to do with it. 
This pole was the first thing I could find. I was 
afraid the snake 'd gel awa\- and 1 had to hurry. 




At lirsi 1 ihuiiglil I 'd use my gun-stock, but was 
afraid of breaking it." 

Poor Paul! He did not know his clinni had 
witnessed the whole performance; but he was to 
hnd it out around the camp-fire that night. 

"Let 's look at it," continued Fred, smiling to 
himself. "What is it? A twelve-foot bushmas- 
ter? Jiminy! It is one!" 

He bent over the dead reptile and stirred it with 
a stick. It was medium sized for its species, 
about eight feet long, and with two enormous 
fangs which, when the boy prodded the head, 
protruded a full inch. The slender, reddish- 
\ellow bod\' was beautifully crossed by blackish 
bands which enclosed patches of brown and 
lighter color; and to the tip of the tail grew a 
small spine. 

The bushmaster is one of the deadliest snakes 
which inhabit the Western Hemisphere, and, 
among poisonous reptiles, is outrivaled in size 
only by the king cobra of India. Fortunately, it 
is mainly nocturnal in habits and is, therefore, 
seldom seen in the jungle. 

Haxing completed his examination, Fred turned 
10 his companion. 

"Pick her up. Fat, and come on." 

"Huh? Me?" 

"Sure. I 've got an ocelot to carry." 

"What! Did you shoot an ocelot that time? 
Let me see it!" 

When Paul had looked the cat o\er thoroughly 
and bemoaned his bad fortune at not being there 
at the death, they retraced their steps toward 
camp. After a few \'ards had lieen cosered, 
t'Ved noticed that liis chum was not carrying the 

"Where 's yotir snake?" he demanded. 

Paul stopped short and slapped his thigh in dis- 
gust with himself, ne\erlheless looking a bit 
guilty. He shuddered inwardU'. 

"There, I forgot it!" he declared loudl\ ; then, 
catching a sparkle in his friend's e\e, added with 
heat, "I did, too!" and mournfulK' turned to 
retrieve the reptile. 



Three days of journeying up the creek brought 
the parly to their destination, .\nother day was 
consumed in erecting a semi-i)ermanent camp. 
Instead of tents, palm shelters were built, under 
which they slung their hammocks. .\ shed 
covered their supplies, a second acted as their 
kitchen, and the bateau, moored firmly to the 
shore, was used as the laboratory. .\ plentiful 
supply of blankets had been brought, for the 
nights were cooler than near the coast. The 

camp rested at the base of some rather high foot- 
hills, and Alilton figured the altitude to be nearly 
a thousand feet abo\-e their base on the lower 

The ne.xt four or five da\s were spent in coinb- 
ing the jungle for giant armadillos. Wa'na was 
the first to discover a burrow. It was situated 
about a mile from camp, a tunnel large enough 
for a man to crawl into; but it was an ancient 
affair, evidently unused for several months. Both 
Walee and Jack had caught a glimpse of one of 
the creatures near the creek, but it had eluded 
their search. 

The boys were as zealous in their efforts as the 
rest, but just as unlucky — even more so. Not 
e\en a single track rewarded their endeavors. 

One morning, Fred, armed with a camera and 
accoinpanied by \\'alee, was fortunate enough to 
obtain a few good photographs along the upper 
reaches of the creek. On their return, Walee 
killed a taira and the boy caught a small, white- 
faced opossum alive, which he carried in triumph 
back to camp. 

The taira, or hacka, was a sa\'age-looking 
carni\-ore belonging to the weasel famiU', with a 
long, rather thick body and short legs. Without 
its bushy tail, it measured about two feet in 
length and weighed nearly fort>' pounds. The 
strong jaw was armed with ugly teeth and gave 
the animal the appearance of a fighter. In color 
it was black as far forward as the shoulders, and 
iron-gray on head and neck. They are quite 
common in the Guiana jungle, inhabiting the 
ground, but, if suddenly startled, often scramble 
half-way up a tree-trunk and cling to the rough 
bark with their claws until the pursuer has passed 
on in search of worthier meat. 

The little white-faced opossum, hardly more 
than a foot long, was a rare creature, and Fred 
felt justly proud of his find. He had been at- 
tracted to it by a rustling in a low-hanging mass 
of vines, and had caught it rifling the nest of an 
ant-bird. Having with difficulty snapped it in 
the act, he was much delighted with himself. 

Paul, put slightly on his mettle, set out at 
once to see what lie could find. As was his cus- 
tom, he seated himself a few hundred ^•ards from 
camp and waited for developments. 

There seemed to be great excitement among a 
group of small birds in the bushes a short distance 
awa\'. He was used to these passing troupes, 
and paid this one small attention. He had seen 
as many as twenty different species grouped to- 
gether, tra\'eling through the forest on a hunt for 
food. Once he had witnessed the assembling of 
a (lock, and had followed it until it broke up and 
its members went their difleretit ways. 

An excited ant-bird had been responsible for 


BON' iir\TF.r<s IX r)FMi:i{_\RA 


ilial whole affair. Aroused by an unexijccled 
abundance of insects on the bush which it liad 
come to search, it had commenced to squeak with 
joy. Instantly it was joined by a second, a 
browner bird, its mate, followed by other ant- 
birds. A quadrille-bird had piped from the un- 
dergrowth, and several humming-birds hung in 
the air. 

And then the troupe had moved; the bush was 
exhausted of its insects. The hummers had 
flashed after microscopic flies beneath the atten- 
tion of the rest, and other ant-birds had turned 
o\er the leaves on the ground to see what they 
could find. For two hundred yards the new-born 
tlock had maintained its concerted hunt and 
incessani jabber, then evaporated as rapidh' as it 
had gathered. 

The present troupe advanced slowly in the 
direction of the boy. The cries of the birds 
seemed a little louder than usual and a bit more 
excited, but Paul was not particularly interested. 
He was after larger game that day. 

Presently the noisy participants were all about 
him. He noticed the presence of a large number 
cf white-crested individuals in the low bushes 
which littered the place, and a dull hum filled 
the air. 

The buzzing sound interested him somewhat, 
and he casually examined his surroundings. To 
his surprise, all the winged insects in the neigh- 
borhood appeared to be hovering in the air as if 
uncertain where to alight. A faint sound — he 
could aniost feel it instead of hear it — as of the 
very gentlest zephyr of wind rustling the foliage, 
aroused him. There was no definite direction 
to it; it was everywhere, above, below, and on all 

He felt a sharp sting on his wrist, another on 
his neck, and several on his left arm. Leaping up 
with a howl, he slapped franticalK' at the smart- 
ing places. He was covered witli ants! The log 
on which he sat was alive with Uilui, the ground 
was crawling with them, and a thousand had 
swarmed o\er his body. 

Fortunately for Paul, his clothing resisted the 
worst of their efl'orts, and when he had dislodged 
those that had found his skin, he was able to keep 
the remainder at bas' until lie had retreated to a 
more favorable spot. There he discovered that 
the pugnacious little beasts were not so easily 
I nushed off as one would expect . They worked at 
both ends, their long pincer jaws ilamped tight 
into the khaki cloth and their jiointed abdomens 
curled under in an effort to pierce its thickness 
with their venomous stings. It took five minutes 
to rid himsell of the half-inch pests, and he was 
not without wounds when the job was finished. 

He had heard of arm\-ants, but had never been 

in contact with them before. He knew they led 
a roaming life, living beneath a stump in one 
locality while they searched the surrounding terri- 
tory for food, and, when it was cleared of insects, 
moving on. Now he had a chance to view them 
at work. 

.\n area a hundred feet in width and twice that 
in depth was covered with the tiny creatures. 
Paul estimated there was an ant for e\er\- two 
square inches of space, and that without counting 
the individuals which climbed the trees. Whole 
regiments swarmed up the trunks — how far up 
they traveled he could not be certain — and entire 
companies deployed in the saplings, where they 
explored e\ery little nook and evers' leaf. The 
shrubs and bushes were relegated merely to pla- 
toons, but platoons with a strength that would 
reach into the thousands. Fully as man\- worked 
abo\e the ground as upon it, and his estimate of 
four million jirobably fell far short of the true total. 

The horde advanced slowly, presenting an even 
front; and as in true warfare, a cloud of skirmish- 
ers were thrown out ahead. These quartered the 
ground, routing out their victims, the wood- 
roaches, crickets, beptles, and others, and drove 
them back into the jaws of the main force. This 
made short work of the unlucky' ones. 

The boy saw an enormous roach scuttle back, 
with a skirmisher fastened to one of its legs. An 
instant later it emerged with a rush from under 
the dead leaf where it had taken refuge. To it 
now clung twenty ants, all using their nippers and 
seeking a niche in its chitin armor into which 
they might thrust their stings. One e\identh' 
succeeded, for the insect stopped abruptly in its 
mad race for freedom and at once was buried be- 
neath a struggling, bloodthirst\' mob. First a leg 
disappeared, then all of them; its wings followed, 
its head, a piece of abdomen, then it was all 
gone. Within thirty seconds the roach was en 
route, piecemeal, for the rear. 

A giant centipede, six inches long, fled from 
beneath a log, but was pulled down before it had 
tra\ersed twenty feet, and a minute later followed 
the way of the roach. Other insects, well able to 
lly, made the attempt too late, and. with a demon 
or two clinging to them, fell back to earth to be 
torn apart. 

.\ hundred birds feasted on those that escaped. 
The little while-crested anl-biriU which composed 
hah ihc iKiiIpe, ^plunrd tin- frli;lilrnfd insects, 
and CdiUenled iIkmiiscKo iinl\ with the ants. 
Paul caught .111 enunuous locust and ln^sed it to 
the arm> , which dismembered it with amazing 
speed; but when he threw in a dead bird, the 
ants walked aroiuul it and tiiuched it not. 

Having watched the ciperations ol the ainiy in 
the lield, he miAcil Inward it> tear. There it 



narrowed down to a single trail, o\er which nio\ed 
an unbroken column marching both ways at 
once. Those that retreated from the battle were 
laden with the fruits of their labors; arms, legs, 
entire insects, and great caterpillars dragged by 
the jaws of twenty hard-working individuals; 
those that returned to the fra>' did so empty 

Following the trail for two hundred yards, he 
came to their storehouse, an old stump, beneath 
which the column, like a chain of buckets in a 
granary, entered laden and came out empty. 

So interested had the bo\' been in watching the 
manttuvres of the ants that he had not noticed 
the passage of time. When he came to himself 
it was too late for more hunting, and he returned 
to camp. 

Both Jack and Fred were much interested in 
his story, though such armies were not new to 
cither of them. 

"They 're one of the must interesting little 
beasts we ha\e in the jungle," Jack declared. 
"The people down in the colony are glad to ha\c 
them visit their homes. The ants act as house- 
cleaners; when they enter, every one gets out, 
and two hours later, when the ants have left, the 
people return to find the premises swept clean of 
all insect vermin like scorpions and tarantulas. 
They are a great nuisance, though, if the>' get on 
>ou. for the>' certainU- can bite and sting." 

"Ho-ho-ho!" crowed Fred, joyously. "I 'd 
like to have seen Fat while he was sitting on that 
log. I bet he got up from there quicker than he 
ever did anything in his life." 

"Guess I did make a little speed," agreed the 
indi\idual referred to. "So would you. Skinny 
Shanks, if you 'd been in my place." 

"Perhaps I would, but just the same I 'd \\;\vc 
enjo>ed seeing \oii dancing aroimd. " 

"Well, it was n't much fini." 

"I law-haw-haw 1 I can sec you now, slapping 
and yelling and using language — Sa\', what 
language did you use?" 

Paul hurled an insect box at his chum anrl the 
conversation was closed. 

On the following morning Fred was mystified 
to see his friend entering the forest with a hea\->' 
army rifle over his shoulder. 

"What are you going to do with that cannoti?" 
he demanded, as Paul marched past him. 

"Oh, nothing. Just going to ha\e a little 

Ten minutes later the slim htn- heard a shot, 
followed at intervals b>' others. What could Fat 
be shooting at? he wondered. Probably just 
l)lazing at a tree; he did n't see much fun in that. 

There came several more shots. What riviltl 
that porpoise be doing? He was making ,in ,i\\ ful 

lot of noise about it, whatever it was. Again 
shots sounded. Fat evidently was iVt ha\'ing 
much success in what he aimed at or it would ha\'c 
been blown to pieces by this time. \\'ell, he 
might just as well go out and show him how! 

Fred disco\ered the other seated on a rock 
beside the creek a short distance from camp. 
As he approached he saw Paul take careful aim 
at some huge hanging nests, which swung from a 
branch o\'er the water, and fire. 

"What are you tr\'ing to do? Wreck those 
cassiques' nests?" 

"No: I 'm trying to cut one of them down with 
this rille," the stout bo)' replied with a grin. "I 
tliink there are some eggs there from the fuss the 
birds are making." 

"Got any yet?" 

"No; those twigs are pretty small things to hit." 

"Here, let me take a shot. Maybe I can hit 
one for you." 

"Haw, you can't do any better than I can." 

"What '11 },"ou bet? Give me the gun." 

Paul turned o\er the rifle and turned his face 
aside so that his chum could not see its gleeful 
expression. He looked first at the nests, then at 
something, half hidden by leaves, which hung 
from a low branch close to the water. Chuckling 
inwardh', he cried, "Go ahead and shoot, then!" 

Fred pointed the rifle and fired. The first shot 
was a total miss. 

"What did I tell you" scoffed tlie other. 

"Wait till I get warmed up. There! How 
about that?" .\ splinter had flown from one 
of the twigs. "I '11 bet I get it this time." 

Sure enough, the next shot brought the long, 
grass-woven nest ttunbling into the water, where 
a back edd>' of current held it beneath the tree. 

"I 'II get it!" Paul \-olunteercd, with pretend- 
ed eagerness. 

"No; 1 '11 do it. I shot it down." 

".\11 right then. But htirry tip, before it drifts 

Fred left the rifle on the bank and jumped 
waist-deep into ri\er. Slowly he made his wa>" 
toward the nest, passing under the low branch as 
he advanced. Then, as he reached out an arm 
to seize it, he leaped into the air with a howl! 

"Ouch! ouch! ouch!" he yelled, slapping frantic- 
ally at his face and neck. "I '\e fallen into a 
wasps' nest! On-oii-oiich!" and he dashed for 

Paul was rolling on the ground in a fit of 

Finding that his pursuers were increasing in 
nmnbers, Fred |)lunged head first imder water 
and swam for the bank. The tiny marabunta 
wasps, which had been aroused by the repeated 
concussions, aided h\ a neat hole drilled in their 




paper nest by the rifle before Fred arri\ed, were 
loath to give up the pursuit, and "settled about his 
head everv- time it appeared abo\e water. But 
at last, discouraged by their victim's prolonged 
immersions, they returned to their \iolated home. 

Fred dragged himself from the water and faced 
his unsympathetic companion. 

"What did — " he began, then clapped his hand 
to his chest. One of the marabuntas had got 
inside. In an instant the shirt went over his 
head and the wasp had met its end. 

Paul went into a second convulsion. 

"I don't see anything to laugh at I" the other 
exclaimed sa\agel>-. "Those fellows might ha\e 
stung me to death." 

At this his chum laughed all the harder. The 
stings of the marabuntas were painful, but not 
ver>' poisonous. When Paul regained control of 
himself, he gasped: 

"Sa>-, what language did >ou use.''" 

Fred looked at him in amazement, then .i light 
dawned upon him. 

"Wh-wh-why you — !" 

But Paul had fled. 

{To be coriltnued) 



"Dry as powder." said Conrad Carter, crushing 
in his hand a bunch of leaves that he had just 
pulled from a bay-bush. "I ne^■er knew the time 
when this branch here was not hard to cross be- 
cause of the water. Now, e\'en these ba>-s arc 
brittle; and the moss is like tinder. I don't know 
what will happen to us if a 'coon or 'possum 
hunter ever drops a spark. This condition 
means," he added thoughtfulh'. "that I have to 
watch day and night: for if a forest hre ever 
crosses the road here, it will burn clear up to the- 
house — and what will save the house? I must 
make a line of back-fire to-morrow^ust as a 

Before retiring that night. Carter walked out 
on the porch of his old plantation liome. Calmh' 
the moonlight of the mild midwinter of the Soutli 
bathed the .sleeping woods, the niist>' fields, and 
the solitary great oaks standing in spectral and 
majestic beauty before the Imusc. It was a 
place Carter lo\-ed. His family had always lived 
there. It was not only his home, it was the home 
of his heart. .And now as he walked down the 
steps and beyond the first patriarchal oak, turn- 
ing to survey the stateh- old mansion in the 
moonlight, he thought he had ne\er .seen it ap- 
pear so appealing in romantic and quiet beaut\ . 

"Nothing must happen to old Fairlawn." he 
said; "not while 1 live." 

Turning, he looked westward, where the dark 
pine forest stretched mysterious and interminable. 
.A faint glow in the sky, under the great throbbing 
star of evening, he thought at first was the late- 
lingering light of the clear sunset. But as he 
observed it more rarefulK-. he suddenly drew in 
his breath sharpK-. 

"The woods are afirel ' he exclaimed. "It 's 
far ofl, to be sure, perhaps six or seven miles, but 
it 's what I dreaded." 

Fortunately there was no wind. With no 
mo^■ing air to fan it and with dew to discourage it. 
a fire in the forest burns slowly at night. Carter 
satisfied himself that there was no immediate 
danger. If the next wind would blow from an\' 
point but the west, the fire might burn clear awa\' 
from his ]ilare. The morrow would tell. But he 
went to bed with the feeling of a soldier who 
senses the coming of a battle. .\nd in his troubled 
dreams he saw flaring pines, flame-swept sedge- 
fields, and the black ruins of burned woods. 

Earl\' in the niorniTig Carter was abroad in tlm 
]iine-lands. The sky was cnercast and he hojied 
for rain. The glow that had tinged the night sk>- 
was no longer \isible: but distant smoke-clouds 
could be seen rising abo\e the trees. The wind 
.seemed to ha\e flied down, bul what little air 
stirred was blowing direct 1\ Irom the west. It 
was this fact that decided the course of the planta- 
tion owner. He would start a back-fire on the 
western edge of the great jilantation road. It 
would be better to sacrifice the open pine-lands 
than the pasture adjoining the house— and at the 
worst, the house itself. Confined to the pine- 
land, the fire would do no more damage that a 
season or two of growth could repair. But a 
fire .sweeping the pasttire could do harm irrepara- 
ble to undergrowth and trees, to neat stacks of 
hand-drawn cypress .shingles, packed ready for 
shipment, to hundreds of cords of fire-wood, to 
fences, to stacks of forage, and to buildings. 

Back-firing the plantation road proved harder 
than Cirter h.iH expected. N'igorous as he was 




for his age, with the hardy endurance that comes 
only from a life of the field and the woods, this 
strenuous work wearied him. Keeping clear of the 
flames, watching that no sparks crossed the road, 
felling dead pines on the burnt side of the road 
so that, if the fire climbed them, flakes of burning 
bark would not be blown into the pasture, the 
smoke, all these were too much for one man to 
handle. But Carter could get no help that day. 
This he knew. The negroes from the settlement 
had gone to a big lodge-meeting far down the 
ri\-er. Only a few children remained in the row 
of negro cabins beyond Fairlawn house; and these 
Carter did not like to enlist as helpers in work of 
ihis kind. He therefore continued it alone, and 
In noon he had accomplished enough to afford 
liim a sense of security. One place, however, 
troubled him. This was Blacktongue Branch, 
a long, nearly dr>' watercourse choked with bays, 
myrtles, rosemar\'-pines, and gall-berries — a dense 
jimgle of undergrowth that extended far into the 
pine-lands and continued into the pasture. 
Strangeh" enough, this thicket did not want to 
burn. I-'\erything appeared dry enough, but 
there must ha\c been dampness lurking in the 
shadows of the evergreens. Carter's fire btirned 
here in a desultory way — not as it shotild have 
rlonc. A fire with any momentum would sweep 
.icross the section he had burned. He therefore 
concentrated his elTorts at this place. It ajv 
peared to be the only .spot at which the forest 
lire might cross the road. 

Coming out of the branch for a moment to 
a\oid the dense smoke arising from burning 
sphagnum. Carter saw a dusky little urchin in the 
road, barefooted, clad in rags, hatless, but with 
a bright and smiling face and all the beguiling 
appeal of an eight-year-old yoimgster. 

"\\ h>', hello, Peter!" exclaimed Carter; "how 
flid \ou come to be here? Who sent you?" 

The lin>' figure mo\ed uneasily and with .some 
embarrassment. Rut Peter's answer was to the 
1 "Nobody done send me," he said ; "i done come 
for to help you." 

"Your pa 's down the ri^•er, is n't he?" .'\nd as 
Carter asked this question, there arose in his 
mind the picture of Peter's father, a negro of 
heroic build and a man of great usefulness on the 
plantation. He longed for his help at this time. 
Peter was hardly a substitute. 

"W'h}-, Peter, I don't believe you can help me," 
Carter continued kindly, touched by the child's 

"The big fire off yonder done broke out again," 
Peter said, pointing with a tiny hand across the 
pine-lands, sleeping in the winter sunshine. 

Carter looked quickk- and saw that thf < hild 

had spoken the truth. A perceptible wind was 
now blowing from the west. It brought the 
smell of smoke, and now and then it dropped a 
flake of gray ash. Dark clouds, that mo\'ed too 
swifth' for rain-clouds, rolled skyward. The fire 
was .surely coming. The speed of its advance 
no man could measure, and none could withstand 
its fur>- if it ever struck a place like the Black- 
tongue Branch. Down such a stretch of dry 
greenery it would ramp and roar like a red hurri- 
cane. Even now, through the silence of noon, 
the rush of the hungry flames could be heard, and 
now and then a great pine, burned through at the 
foot, where the turpentine-boxer had left the 
tree vulnerable, could be heard falling heavily. 
Carter had not done his work a moment too soon. 
In a half-hour the fire might be upon him, gath- 
ering momentum as it came, and creating by its 
own furious advance a stormy wind. He had 
seen such fires before, and of one thing concerning 
them he was sure: they were of the greatest danger 
to little children. Peter must return home as 
fast as he could. There was nothing he could do. 
He had been good to come, but a child cannot 
fight fire. Even Conrad Carter must do all his 
fighting »ow; later, the flames would have to have 
their own way. He feared lest Peter be endan- 
gered in some manner — overcome by the smoke, 
caught by a falling tree, lost in the chaos that 
would soon reign at the head of the Blacktongite 
Branch. Carter would stay as long as that was 
possible, but the little boy must go home at once. 

"Peter, I think this place here is going to burn 
out, but I will work with the back-fire as long as I 
can. You ha\c helped me by coming, but you 
must run home now. " 

The dusky lad hesitated. 

"You want me for to go?" he asked, disappoin- 
ted, but brightly willing to obey. 

"Yes, Peter, this branch will burn. You see 
there is no water in it to stop the fire." 

As Carter turned to reenter the darksome thicket 
that he was attempting to burn, he looked over 
his shoulder. Down the broad, white, sandy 
road little feet were flying. 

"I 'II be following pretty soon," said the planter, 
grimly. "And I must tell Peter's father about 
this — how he came to help me, and, when I -sent 
him back, he went. That is what character 

It was nearly an hour later. With terrible 
rapidity- the forest fire had swept down through 
the pine-lands. Darkness from black smoke- 
clouds was before it. The woods were filled with 
heat, the flashes of leaping flames, and the thud- 
ding of falling trees. A mile from the plantation 
rn,id the great fire swept into the far end of the 



I'ETER TO 1111. RliSCUlC 


HLickloiijiHL-. 'I'licR-, luiioiisly rejoicing, it 
slormcd ihrougii tlic wealth of tinder in the 
parched watercourse. Portentous columns of 
Hames and smoke rose and twisted and turned 
and were blown ficrceU' toward the place where 
Carter, trying desperately to back-fire, heard only 
too well the roar of doom approaching. He did 
not lea\e his work to look; he kept fighting his 
way tiirough the dense jungle, dropping fire from 
his torch of pitch-pine. He knew that the time 
left was short. .Already the smoke was so dense 
and acrid that his breathing was stilled. But he 
would not lea\e. His back-fire was burning 
slowly, and as the breaths from the adx'ancing 
tornado began to fan it, the flames leaped up 
more briskly. Grimed, weary, half-dazed by 
smoke, becoming doubtful as to his exact position 
in the branch in its relation to the road, he toiled 
on, faithful to what he saw as a trust — the sasing 
of Fairlawii from the flames. 

Suddenly Carter became aware that he must 
get clear himself. He had done all he could to 
save the pasture and what lay beyond. Xow 
he must save himself. He had not believed that a 
fire could sweep on with such appalling speed and 
ferocity. The air was dense with flying sparks 
and cinders and with rolling volumes of smoke. 
The roar of the flames was deafening. Fifty feet 
the red tongues shot hungrily skyward. To the 
westward all was panic and disaster, and the 
crest of the wild tidal wa\e of flame was now about 
to break upon the eastern end of the Blacklonguc. 

Groping painfully amid the fumes, harried by 
\ ines and torn at by scraggy grow"ths of the dense 
thicket. Carter fought his way outward. But his 
isrogress did not keep pace with the onrush of the 
flames. He had gone deep into tlic branch with 
his torch, but to get out was a different matter. 
lie was bewildered, and his lungs began to labor 
pitifully. Fallen trees in the jungle obstructed 
his path. He climbed o\'er them. From one, as 
he was getting across it, he fell hea\ily, and for a 
moment lay half stunned. He was losing his .sense 
of direction. Though he fought his way on, he 
was dimly aware that his jirogrcsswas counting for 
nothing. The world seemed afire. A thousand 
demons roared in his ears. Fierce heat and the 
rushing o' flames and smoke cnconi)jassed him. 
W 1. I't' was the road.-* He could see nothing but 
fire; he could hear nothing, smell nothing, taste 
nothing btlt fire! It swept about him! 

"I fought to ke^ |) this from Fairlawn," he cried 
out in his ag(M\-, "but it 's going to get me. I 'm 
lost! lost' lost!" 

Tlu-n, gripiied in the led jaws of death, Conrad 
Carter suddenly heard some one speaking. 

"Water," said a childish voice, "I done bring 
dat water for you." 

Lying behind a wall of logs, wliei'c at last he had 
lallen and which for a moment ga\e him a little 
shelter, the dazed man opened his eyes to see 
above him little Peter, lioUling in his hand a small 
tin bucket of water. .Ml round them the fire 
surged madly. 

"Pour the water on nu- head, Peter," Carter 
said unsteadily. 

The dusky lad did as he was bid. The white 
man struggled to his knees. 

"The way to the road — do you know it?" 

"This way," said Peter, simph', taking Carter's 
great bronzed hand in his tiny black fingers and 
jjointing with the other liand through the shroud- 
ing flames. 

Carter gathered his strength together; then, 
still kneeling, he took the small lad in his great 

"Hold tight and shut your eyes and mouth," 
he said. 

Then, bowing low, the man made a rush through 
the burning thicket at the point which the boy 
had indicated as the straight way to the road! 

It was a fierce struggle, but a short one. W'itli- 
in a few minutes Carter was out in the road. 
He beat out the sparks w-ith which he and Peter 
had been showered, and soon they were almost 
clear of the smoke. There an an old pine log b>' 
the roadside the\' rested, — these two fire-fighters, — 
the owner of Fairlawn, a bronzed woodsman, now 
haggard and gaunt, and beside him the boy who 
had rescued him. And there they stayed until 
the ravaging flames, baffled by the back-firing in 
the Blacktongue, burned themselves out. Sparks, 
indeed, crossed the road ; but no fire caught, and 
the pasture was saxed. 

"Peter," said Carter, gra\-e!y, as they sat in 
close comradeship on the old log, "how did you 
find me in that place.''" 

"I done see where you gone in," the child said 
simply, "but I done been lookin' for you a good 
while," he added, with unconscious pathos. 

"But the water," Carter went on, "the water 
that sa\ ed m\ life. How did you happen to bring 

".\in't you done say," Peter asked cjuaintK', 
"dat there ain't no water in de branch to put out 
de fire? If you don't hab no water, I must fetch 
you water. I been tr\in' for t(j hel|_) you," he 
added, as it justifying himself. 

Carter looked ofl' across the smoking pine-lands; 
but something more than smoke made his eyes 
behave as they did. 

"\\m '11 nc\iT know, Peter, huw iiiiidi you 
helped nie. " 

Then to his own heart Carter said, "He will 
ne\er know; but 'Greater love hath no man than 



Field Naluratist 'i'ith Smithsonian-Roosevelt Scientific Expedition to Africa 

"Snuffer" al\\a\=i did one of two things when 
I picked him up: he snuffed and made a funny 
little noise in his throat that sounded as though 
his heart was thumping ver>- hard against his 
ribs; or he rolled up like a big brown chestnut-bur. 
He cuddled up and looked like a bur because 
he was a hedgehog. Now don't contradict me 
and say you don't believe it because hedge- 
hogs don't roll up like chestnut-burs, for they do; 
that is to say, mine do. If yours don't, it is 
because you live in a section of the countr\' where 
ix)rcupines are erroneously called hedgehogs. So 
\'ou see, according to our different wa>s of think- 
ing, we are both right, but I am "righter," be- 
cause there are no hedgehogs in America. 

Snuffer, my hedgehog, lis'ed in Europe, where 
all hedgehogs live; that is, all but those that live 
in Asia or Africa. The particular part of Europe 
where he li\-ed was in Sweden, near Upsala. 

He and I met one evening just as it was getting 
dark, which is the right time to meet hedgehogs. 
I had just finished \x\\ supper and would soon go 
to bed, and he had just waked up and was going 
out after his breakfast. So you see that while I 
was sleeping, he was awake; and while he was 
sleeping, I was awake. That 's why we ne\er 
met in the daytime. 

Snuffer probably knew where he could get a 
meal of mice, bugs, and berries — in the grass, in 
the fields, or along some hedgerow. That must 
ha\-e been what he was after when we met. We 
were both somewhat surprised, and for a few 
seconds stood looking at each other. Then 
Snuffer turned and ran. But his little legs were 
so much shorter than mine that I overtook and 
picked him up; whereupon he rolled up into a 
ball, his prickers standing out like those on a 
chestnut-bur, as I have said. 

You see. Dame Nature had gi\en him such 
short legs that no matter how fast he tried to 
work them, any animal could catch him. 

"Now see what you 've done!" said Snuffer 
to Dame Nature when ho discovered his dilemma. 
"You 've ruined my prospects for a long life. I '\'e 
no means of protecting myself. The first hungry 
animal that comes along will make a meal of 

"Well, w-e-l-1!" replied Dame Nature; "so I 
have! How stupid of me! Usually I am very 
careful about that. Don't worry, though; I '11 
fix it all right. It is n't too late yet. I 've made 
so many sharp-toothed and sharp, long-clawed 

animals, and so many swift-footed creatures that 
can either fight or flee from enemies, that this 
time I just think I will make you so you won't 
have to do either." 

"That sounds all right," said Snuffer, "but 
how are you going to do it?" 

Dame Nature did n't say a word. She began 
placing spines all o\er Snuffer's back, on the 
crown of his head and on his sides. When she 
was through. Snuffer looked like a military hair- 
brush l>ing on its back. 

"There >ou are!" she said, as she stepped back 
and looked him over. "Now when any animal 
comes after you, don't run. Just stop right still, 
roll up like a ball, and those spines will stick out 
in all directions and prick so hard that no one 
will dare to toiich you." 

Well, sir! I gingerh picked him up, for his 
prickers were not so sharp unless I squeezed him, 
and I took care not to do that ; the fact is, I 
handled him just as you would a chestnut-bur. 
I turned him around and he looked the same all 
o\er. Where had he gone? I could find no hole 
or sign of a hole where he had disappeared, yet 
when I first saw him, I was sure that he had four 
legs and a little head; but where were they now? 

For some time I held him very still in my hand, 
and then his prickers began to move just like the 
hair on a cat's back when she stands on her toes. 
arches her body, and begins to stretch, and you 
think she is going to "boil over." Then I saw a 
little hole begin to 0[>en up in the center of the 
bur and a little nose appei»red, and then two little 
black eyes peeped out at me. Gradually the hole 
grew larger and larger until his whole face and a 
pair of big ears were exposed and a broad, stubbx'. 
whitish tail touched the end of his nose. There 
he la\ in my hand, blinking at me and ready to 
close up like a clam should I make a move. 

I took Snuffer to my room and placed him on 
the floor, where he la>- for some time before he 
began to unroll again. I went about my busi- 
ness and finally again saw him peeking ai r.tJ|ifjin 
the little opening. He watched me until he.vas 
ihoroughU' satisfied that I meant him no harm, 
and then he uncurled entirely find ran about the 

I kept SnutYer in my room for about a week, 
and he pro\ed to be a ver>' funny and interesting 
little pet. It was not long before I discovered 
how he managed to coil up so tightly whene\ir 
he was scared. When he grew so tame that he 




did not mind being handled, I put a finger under 
liim and tickled his little "tummy." When he 
closed upon it, I could feel a broad band of strong 
muscles. It ran over his head and completeh' 
surrounded his body at a point where the spines 
on his back and side united with the hair on his 
under parts. This acted just like a puckering- 
string at the mouth of a bag. 

\Vhene\er he wanted to become a chestnut- 
bur, he tucked his head under his chest, arched 
his back, pulled the muscles tight, and there he 
was — as snug as a bug in a rug. 

Snuffer grew so tame that I could call him 
from across the room b>' tapping on the floor witii 
my fingers; and when he came up and found that 
I did not have any food for him, he showed his 
displeasure by snifhng and butting sidewise against 
m>- hand with his spines. I fed him bread, boiled 
potatoes, and mice. He did n't seem to care 
much for bread and potatoes, but he was \er>' 
fond of mice. He ate slowly and kept gritting 
his teeth most of the time. I remember that it 
once took him si.vteen and a half minutes to eat 
a half-grown mouse — maybe because he chewed 
his food verj- fine before swallowing it. 

From time to time he would shake himself, and 
his bristles would rattle against each other. 
Once I put him on the couch. He did n't seem 

awoke I could hear the patter, patter, patter of 
his feet on the carpet. He soon got so that he 
would not coil up when I handled him, but he 
always tried, by squatting close to the floor and 

fiiutugniph by Kiwiii li- -^ 


"IVhenever he wanted to become a chestnut- 
bur, he tucked his head under his chest, arched 
his back, pulled his muscles tight, and there he 
was — as snug as a bug in a rug." 

to like that, for every time that he came to the 
side he would flatten out and peep over the edge 
as though he were afraid of falling. 

He was most active at night, and whenever I 

^il-h l.\ KUviu 1: Sa 


"There he lay in my hand, blinking at me 
and ready to close up like a clam." 

sniffing, to prevent me from putting my hand 
under him. Sniffing seemed to be his wa\- of 
sa>'ing don't. 

One night he in some manner managed to 
climb up on nn" bed, and awoke me by butting 
against my cheek and sniffing. He slept on his 
side, partly curled up like a dog. \\'henever I 
shut the door or made any sudden noise, he would 
jump nervously, and at the first sign of real 
danger he threw up his spines and ducked his 
head, ready to pull the "pucker-string." Several 
times he bit my fingers, but it was never more 
than a hard pinch. 

One evening I knocked from the table and 
broke a glass candlestick, and after I had gone 
to bed I heard Snuffer rolling one of the pieces 
about the floor. At another time he tipped over 
on its side a bowl of drinking-water, and, putting 
his nose against the side, rolled it about the room 
for a few seconds. Then he ran away, but soon 
returned and repeated his pla>' se\-eral times with 
evident delight. 

When I left Upsala I wanted to take my little 
pet with me, but I finally decided to gi\e him his 
liberty; so I carried him back to the spot where 
we first met and placed him on the ground. The 
last I saw of him, he was trudging off down a lane 
toward a dense thicket, carrying with him his load 
of spines. 



Author of "The Sapphire Signet." "The Slipper Point Mystery," etc., etc. 


If Leslie Crane and Phj'Uis Kelvin had not discovered strange lights at night and other mysterious features about 
the closed-for-the-season bungalow. Curlew's Nest, and if Leslie's dog Rags had not dug up from the sand in front 
of the same place a curious, carved, bronze box that no one could open, there would have been no story! But all 
these things had happened; and besides these, the two friends had become acquainted with a strange young English 
girl boarding in the village, who owned and ran a big motor-car and had a grandfather ill in a hospital a lew miles 
away. Her name was Eileen Ramsay, and they had discovered an old envelop in Curlew's Xest addressed to the 
"Hon. Arthur Ramsay." though that was not the name of the old gentleman who had last occupied it, nor did 
Eileen appear to know anything about the place, either. On a certain afternoon she invited them all out for a 
long motor-ride. Later, they have cause to think that she did this only to get them away while some accomplice 
entered Curlew's Nest. They also suspect that accomplice to be Phyllis's brother Ted. 

Late that night they themselves enter and go through the mysterious bungalow again. They find a singular, 
type-written note on the table, warning whoever stole the "article" from its hiding-place to return it or serious 
consequences will ensue. Phyllis has a sudden idea, and prints on the bottom of the note that tlie article will be 
returned. They both realize that this means the bronze box, which had been sewed up in the burlap bag that the 
dog had unearthed and that thej' have hidden on a kitchen shelf in Leslie's house. 

Ph>-llis plans to sew up an old jewel-box of hers in a burlap bag just like the other one. hide it where they found 
the first, and see what happens. This they accordingly do, and then wait two or three days to see if anything will 
occur. .As nothing does, they decide to go for a long walk and stop watching the spot for a while, and accordingly 
take a stroll on the beach that afternoon. During this walk, they come unexpectedly upon a strange man fishing 
on the beach and his occupation serves to introduce them. .As he is leaving them, Leslie suddenly confides to 
Phyllis that he is the same man she saw at dawn one morning digging in the sand in front of Curlew's Xest, evi- 
dently trying to find the bronze box. The only difference is that that man walked away with a decided limp, and 
this one seems to have none. Phyllis thinks there must be some mistake, but Leslie feels sure she is right. 

That night there is a violent hurricane and the sea begins to rise ominously. Leslie's invalid aunt goes to bed 
early, but the two girls sit up watching the storm. But while they are looking out of the windows they see two or 
three dark forms slinking about Curlew's Nest and are rather alarmed. To their further astonishment, there is a 
knock at the door and Eileen Ramsay comes in, drenched, saj'ing she was coming back from the hospital in her 
car and got lost and finally found herself in this vicinity and came in for shelter. The girls hardly know how much 
of this to believe; but returning to watch from the windows, they suddenly see two figures circling slowly about the 
old log where the bronze box was once buried and where Phyllis has since buried the false one. And while they 
are watching, suddenly Eileen, behind them, cries out, "Oh, Ted. — be careful!" 


CHAPTER XV'III "Oh, there is something wrong I They 're — 

they 're struggling together — for something 1" 
Both of the other girls rushed to the window 

Phyllis whirled about. "What is the matter? and peered out o\er her shoulder. There was 

Why do you sa>' that?" she demanded in a fierce indeed something decidedU' exciting going on. 

whisper. The two figures who had been circling about the 

Eileen shrank back, e\idently appalled by what old log, watching each other like a couple of wild 

she had unconsciously revealed. "I — I — did n't animals, were now wrestling together in a fierce 

mean anything!" she stammered. encounter. How it had come about, the girls 

"You certainly did!" Phyllis declared. "You did not know, as none of them had been looking 

said something about 'Ted.' Who is 'Ted,' and out when it began. But it was plainly a struggle 

what is going on outside there?" for the possession of something that one of them 

"Oh, I don't know! — I 'm not — sure! 1 'ni had clutched tighth' in his hand. X'aguely they 

dreadfully nervous, that 's all." could see it, dangling about, as the contest went 

"Look here!" cried Phyllis, with stern deter- on. And each, in her secret heart, knew it to 

mination, "I believe you know a great deal more be the burlap bag — and its contents! 

than you will acknowledge. You 've said some- "Eileen!" cried Phyllis, turning sharply upon 

thing about 'Ted.' Now, I have a brother Ted, the other girl, "is one of those two — my brother 

and I 've reason to think he has been mixed up Ted? Answer me — truthfully." 

with some of your affairs. I wish you would "Yes — oh, yes!" panted Eileen, 

kindly explain it all. I think there 's some "And is he in — danger?" persisted Phyllis, 

trouble — out there!" "Oh — I 'm afraid so!" 

"Oh, I can't — 1 ought n't," Eileen moaned; "Then I 'm going out to help him!" declared 

when suddenly Leslie, who had glanced again oul Phyllis, courageously. "Come, Leslie — and bring 

of the window, uttered a half-suppressed cry: Rags!" 




Leslie never afterward knew how it happened 
— that she, a naturally timid person, should have 
walked out of that house, unhesitatingly and 
unquestioningly, to do battle with some unknown 
enemy in the storm and the dark. If she had 
had any time to think about it, she might have 
faltered. But Phyllis gave her no time. With 
Rags at their heels, they snatched up some wraps 
and all suddenly burst out of the front door onto 
the veranda, Phyllis having stopped only long 
enough to take up her electric torch from the 
living-room table. She switched this on in the 
darkness, and guided by its light, they plunged 
into the storm. 

The force of the wind almost took their breath 
away. And as they plowed along, Leslie was 
horrified to notice that the tide had crept al- 
most up to the level of the old log and was within 
sixty feet of the bungalow. "Oh, what shall we 
do if it comes much higher!" she moaned to her- 
self. But from that moment on, she had little 
time for such considerations. 

Phyllis had plunged ahead with the light, and 
the two other girls followed her in the shadow. 
Leslie was somewhat hampered in her advance, as 
she was holding Rags by his collar and he strongly 
objected to the restraint. But she dared not let 
him loose just then. 

Suddenly they were plunged in utter darkness. 
Phyllis's torch had given out! The two others, 
reaching her side at that instant, heard her gasp, 
"Oh, dreadful! Can anything be the matter 
with this battery?" But after a moment's ma- 
nipulation the light flashed on again. It was in 
this instant that they saw the face of Ted, lying 
on the ground and staring up at them while his 
assailant held him firmly pinned beneath him in 
an iron grip. 

"Help!" shrieked Ted, above the roar of the 
wind. "Let Rags loose!" 

They needed no other signal. Leslie released 
her hold on the impatient animal, and with a 
snarl that was almost unnerving, he darted, 
straight as an arrow, for Ted's assailant. 

The girls never knew the whole history of that 
encounter. They only realized that Ted finally- 
emerged from a whirling medley of legs and arms, 
limping, but triumphant, and strove to loosen 
I he dog's grip on a man who was begging to be 

"That '11 do, Rags, old boy! You 've done the 
trick! Good old fellow! Now you can let go!" 
he shouted at the dog, trying to persuade him to 
loosen his hold. But Rags was obdurate. He 
could see no point in giving up the struggle at 
this interesting junctiu'e. 

"Call him off!" Ted shouted to the girls. "I 
can't make him let go!" 

"Is it safe?" cried Phyllis, in answer. 

"We 'II have to take a chance!" he answered. 
"He 'shall killing this fellow!" 

With beating heart, Leslie came into the range 
of the light, grasped Rags by the collar and pulled 
at him with all her might. "Come Rags! Let 
go! It 's all right!" 

The dog gave way reluctantly. And when he 
had at length loosed his terrible grip and was 
safely in Leslie's custody, the man scrambled to 
his feet, rose, held on to his arm with his other 
hand, and groaned. 

And, despite his disheveled condition and his 
drenched appearance, in the glare of the electric 
torch the girls recognized him, with a start of 
amazement. It was the fisherman of the after- 
noon — the man with the former limp! 

He turned immediately on Ted with an angry, 
impatient gesture. "Well, the other fellow got it 
— after all! I don't know what business you 
had in this concern, but you spoiled the trick for 
me — and did n't do yourself any good! And if 
that dog gi\-es ine hydrophobia, I '11 sue the whole 
outfit of 30U ! He beat it off in that direction — 
the other fellow. I saw that much. I can't lose 
any time, though what I need is a doctor." 

And with another angry snort, he disappeared 
into the darkness and the hurricane! 



It was an amazed, bewildered, and sheepish group 
that faced each other in the light of the electric 
torch after the departure of the unknown man. 
Phyllis was the first to recover self-possession. 

"Well, we might as well go indoors," she re- 
marked, in her decided way. "There 's evidently 
nothing to be gained by staying out here in the 
storm!" • 

The others, still too benumbed in mind to 
have any initiative of their own, followed her 
obediently. Only when they were at the door 
did Leslie arouse to the immediate urgencies. 

"Do please be very quiet and not wake Aunt 
Marcia!" she begged. "I 'm afraid the effect 
on her would be very bad if she were to realize 
all that has happened here." 

They entered the bungalow on tiptoe, removed 
their drenched wraps, and sank down in the 
nearest chairs by the dying fire. 

"And now," remarked Phyllis, constituting 
herself spokesman, as she threw on a fresh log 
and some smaller sticks, "we 'd be awfully obliged 
to you, Ted and Eileen, if you '11 kindly explain 
what this mystery is all about!" 

"I don't see why under the sun you had to come 
butting into it!" muttered Ted, resentfully. 




nursing some bruises he had sustained in the 
recent fray. 

"Please remember," retorted Phyllis, "that if 
I had n't 'come butting into it,' — and Leslie and 


Rags, — you 'd probably be ver>- much the worse 
for wear at this moment!" 

"That 's so! Forgive me, old girl ! You did do 
a fine piece of work — all of you. I 'm just sore 
because the thing turned out so — badly. But 
what I rcalh- meant was that I can't see how >ou 
got mixed up in it at all — from the verj' beginning, 
I mean." 

"That 's precisely- what we think about you!" 
laughed Phyllis. "We 've felt all along as if it 
were our affair and that you were interfering. So 
I think we 'd better have explanations all around !" 
"Well, as a matter of 
fact, it 's Eileen's affair, 
most of all, so I think 
she 'd belter do her e.\- 
plaining first," Ted of- 
fered as a solution of the 

They all looked toward 
Eileen, sitting cowered 
o\er the fire, and she an- 
swered their look with a 
startled gaze. 

"I — I don't know 
whether I ought!" she 
faltered, turning to Ted. 
"Do you think I ought?" 
"I guess you 'd bet- 
ter!" he decided. "It's 
got to a point where these 
folks seem to have some 
inside information of 
their own that perhaps 
might be valuable to you. 
At any rate, there '11 
be no harm done by it, 
1 can vouch for that. So 
— just fire away!" 

Thus adjured, Eileen 
drew a long breath and 
said, hesitantly: 

"I — I really don't 
know just where to be- 
gin. A lot of it is just as 
much a mjstery to me as 
it is to you. I think you 
all have heard that I 
ha\e a grandfather who 
is verv" ill. in a hospital 
over in Branchville. He 
is the Honorable Arthur 
Ramsay, of Norwich, 
England. He has been 
for many years a tra\eler 
and explorer in China 
and India and Tibet. 
E^rl>- this year he had a 
se\-ere attack of Indian fever and could not seem to 
recuperate, so he started for England, coming by 
way of the Pacific and America. When he got to 
the .Atlantic coast, this last summer, some one 
recommended that he should tr\- sta\-ing a few 
weeks at this beach; so he took a bungalow and 
spent part of the summer and autumn here, and 
thought he was much benefited." 




"Do excuse me for interrupting!" exclaimed 
Phyllis; "but was the bungalow he rented Cur- 
lew's Nest?" 

"Why, yes," hesitated Eileen, with a startled 
glance at her, "il — it was." 

"Then, do you mind telling me how it was that 
the name was so different.-'" persisted Phyllis. 
"Mrs. Danforth understood that she rented it to 
a Mr. Horatio Gaines." 

"Oh, it was Grandfather's idea not to take 
it in his own name, because, >'0U see, he 's 
a rather well-known person in England and even 
over here, and he needed a complete rest, with no 
danger of having to be interviewed or called upon 
or anything like that. So he had his man, Geof- 
frey Horatio Gaines, hire the place and transact 
all the business here in his name. 1 1 saved Grand- 
father a lot of trouble, for Geoffrey simply took 
charge of everything; and as Grandfather never 
went among people here, no one was the wiser. 

"After he left the cottage, he expected to go to 
New York and remain there till he sailed for 
home. And he did go there for a few days, but 
his health at once grew worse, so he returned to 
the beach. Of course, the bungalow was closed 
by that time, so he took rooms at the hotel, far- 
ther along. It was there that I joined him. I 
had come over here with friends of Mother's, 
earlier in the summer, and had been visiting at 
their summer camp in the Adirondacks until I 
should join Grandfather and return to England 
with him. 

"I had n't been with him more than two or 
three days when I realized that something had 
gone awfully wrong, somehow or other. Grand- 
father was worried and upset about something, 
and he began to watch his mail and be anxious 
to a\oid meeting any one. He could n't or 
would n't explain things to me, but had long inter- 
views with his man, Geoffrey, who has been with 
him for years and years and whom he trusts 

"At last, one awfully stormy night, about two 
weeks ago, Geoffrey disappeared, and has never 
been seen or heard of since. We can't imagine 
what has become of him. And the next day 
( irandfather was so worried about him and the 
other troubles, that a cold he had ran into a severe 
attack of pneumonia. Of course, it was n't 
feasible for him to remain at the hotel, especially 
as it was soon to close, so he had himself taken to 
the nearest good hospital, which happened to be 
this one at Branchville. Since he did n't have 
Geoffrey to wait on him, he wanted to be where 
he could have the best attention and nursing, and 
as I could run his car, which Geoffrey had alwa%'s 
done, I could easily get there to see him. Then, 
as you probably know, the hotel closed for the 

season, and the manager %'ery kindly found me a 
place to sta>' — with Aunt Sally Blake — in the 
N'illage. She has been very good and kind to mei» 
but I expect I 've worried her a lot, not because I 
did n't care, but because I could n't help it and I 
could n't tell her about — things! 

"But, oh! I have been so troubled — so fairly 
desperate, at times! You cannot even guess the 
awful burden I '\-e had to bear — and all alone, — 
at least til! I came, quite by accident, to know 
your brother Ted. He has helped me so much — 
but that is another part of the stor>-! 

"One night Grandfather's fever was %ery high 
and he was delirious. I begged his nurse to let 
me sit with him awhile, and I heard him con- 
stantly muttering about the bungalow, and Geof- 
frey hiding something there, and it being safe at 
Curlew's Nest, and a lot more half-incoherent 
remarks of that kind. Next morning he was a 
little better and in his right mind again, so I 
asked him what he had meant by the things he 
had talked about the night before. And then he 

"Eileen, I '11 have to trust you with some of the 
secret, I believe, since you 've overheard what 
>ou have. Perhaps you may even be able to 
help, and of course I can trust you to keep your 
own counsel — absohitel>'. There 's been a very 
mysterious mix-up here, and it involves far more 
than you ma>' imagine. In fact, it might even 
become an affair of international moment — if 
something is not found, and quickly too. The 
gist of the matter is this: while I was in China 
last year, I had some informal correspondence 
with an official very high in government circles 
there, concerning his attitude in regard to the 
province of Shantung. As he was inclined to be 
very friendly toward me at the time, he was just 
a little expansive and indiscreet (I think those 
were Grandfather's words) in regard to his 
Government's plans. Later, I think, he regretted 
this, and made some half-joking overtures to have 
his letters returned. But 1 pretended not to 
understand hiin and the matter was dropped. 
.%a matter of fact, I thought them too suggestive 
and important to my own Goxcrnment to pari 
with them! 

"It is these letters that are the heart of the 
whole trouble," Grandfather says. "He heard 
nothing more about them till he came to stay at 
the hotel here. Then he received a ver>' threaten- 
ing letter, declaring that if this packet was not 
returned to the writer, serious con.sequences 
would result. It did n't say ivhal consequences, 
but Grandfather suspected they might even go as 
far as an attempt on his life. But he was deter- 
mined not to give up the letters. You see, they 
concerned a matter that might involve his own 




countr>' vvith China, and he felt they should be 
delivered to his own Go%ernnient. Besides that, 
•he is just stubborn enough not to be bullied into 
anything by threats. 

"His man Geoffrey tried to persuade him to 
put the letters in a safe-deposit vault in New- 
York, but Grandfather says he is old-fashioned in 
some things and does n't trust even to safe-de- 
posit boxes — says he prefers to keep things he 
values in his own possession. He had the letters 
in a queer little bronze box that was given him, 
years ago, by the late Empress Dowager of China. 
It had a secret lock that was quite impossible to 
open unless one knew the trick. He carried this 
in his pocket, and slept with it under his pillow 
at night, and felt perfectly safe about it." 

Here Eileen paused a moment for breath, and 
the two other girls glanced at each other guiltily, 
but they said nothing. Then Eileen went on: 

"One night, just after I came, there was an 
attempt to rob him at the hotel. The attempt 
failed because Geoffrey hapisened to be awake and 
discovered some one prowling about Grandfather's 
sitting-room. Whoever it was escaped through 
the window without even his face being seen, and 
there was no trace of him later.' Grandfather 
made Geoffrey keep the thing quiet and not report 
it to the hotel, because he did n't want any 
publicity about the matter. But he decided then 
that it would be safer to have the thing hidden 
somewhere for a time — in some place where no 
one would dream of hunting for it. And it struck 
him that down at the bimgalow where he had 
spent those quiet weeks, and which he supposed 
was all shut up and deserted, would be as unlikely 
a spot as any to be suspected of hiding such a 
thing. He supposed that the one next door — 
this one — was closed also, or I do not think he 
would have considered that hiding-place. 

"So the next night, which happened to be one 
when there was a very hard storm, he sent 
Geoffrey down to the bungalow with the little 
box containing the letters. He did not wish him 
to take the car, as it might be too conspicuous, 
InU had him go on foot. Geoffrey had found out, 
during the summer, that one could get into that 
place through a door at the -side by working at 
the hook through the crack with a knile-bladc, 
and he intended to get into the cottage and con- 
ceal the box in some out-of-the-way hiding-place 

"But here is where the mystery begins. Geof- 
frey set off that night, but has never been seen or 
heard of since. What has happened to him, we 
cannot imagine, unless he was caught and made 
a ijrisoner by some one concerned in getting those 
letters. If he had been killed, we would surely 
know it. Yet if he were alive, it seems as if we 

should ha\e heard from him, somehow. He was 
a most devoted and faithful and trustworthy soul, 
so we are sure that something must ha\-e hap- 
pened to him — that he is being detained some- 
where. Grandfather is quite certain that he is 
guarding the secret of that box, somehow, and 
that it would be best to wait till he comes back or 
sends us some word. 

"\\"hat Grandfather asked me to do was to run 
out here in the car some da>-. and, if there was no 
one about, to scout around and see if I could dis- 
cover am- clue to the m^•ster^^ without attracting 
attention. He supposed, of course, that the beach 
was by that time entirely deserted. I came out 
the very- next day, but found to m\- disgust that 
the cottage next door was occupied — by you, as I 
now know! But I felt it would not be wise to 
be seen about here in the daytime, so, without 
saying anything to Grandfather (who would be 
awfully upset if he knew it), I determined to run 
out about ten o'clock that night and scout around 
when you people would probably be in bed. 

".\nd here is where Ted comes into it! I got 
here that night as I had planned, found no one 
about, and tried the experiment of getting into 
the side door, as Grandfather had explained. 
But I found it ven.- difficult; in fact, quite im- 
possible — for mc! And while I was fussing with 
it, I was suddenly startled by a low voice, right 
behind me, inquiring very politely what I was 
trying to do! It was Ted, here, who had been 
out for a stroll, and happening to catch a glimpse 
of me at this very peculiar occupation, and natu- 
rally thinking I was a burglar, had come up un- 
obser\'ed to find out about it! 

"You can just imagine what an awful position 
it was for me! I did not know what to say or 
what to do. I knew that, legally, I had no busi- 
ness there, and if he were inclined to make a fuss 
about it, he could have me arrested. I literally 
almost went out of my mind at that moment. 
But I guess something must ha\e made him feel 
that I was n't really a 'lady burglar' or anything 
of that sort, for he just said, ven.' kindly, 'If you 
are in trouble, perhaps I can help \ou !' 

"I did n't see how he could |Kissibl\' help me 
unless he knew the whole stor\'. and I thought 1 
ought not tell any one that! But unless I did, I 
was certainly- in a ver>' terrible position. So I 
suddenly made up my mind it would have to be 
done, for something made me feel he was honor- 
able and trustworth\', a<id that the secret would 
be safe with him. What made me feel all the 
more sure was that he mentioned that he was 
staying up the beach at his father's bungalow, and 
had happened to l.)e out for a walk and had seen 
me there. I know he said it to make me feel 
easier, and that everything was all right. 



"So I told him as much as I could of the story. 
And when he had heard it, he said: 'I happen to 
know all about opening that door, because I 
know the people very well who own the cottage. 
Perhaps you had better let me try.' I said I 'd 
be only too glad to, and he had the door unfas- 
tened in a moment. Then he told me to go in 

secret from every one, and said that he would 
make an even more thorough search over Cur- 
lew's Nest, if I wished, because he had much 
better opportunity to do so. Of course, I agreed 
to that and went on back to Aunt Sally's. 

"Two days later, Ted saw my car going along 
one of the back roads near the village, signaled to 


and examine the place all I wished to and he 
would watch outside. If I needed any help, I 
could call and he would come in and do what he 
could for me. 

"Well, I went in and e.\amined the whole place 
with my electric torch, but I could not discover a 
single thing except that one of the bricks in the 
fireislace had been partly loosened and a broken 
knite-blade was in the corner of the chimney-place. 
It was the only thing I could see to show that 
possibly Geoffrey had been there. I thought the 
knife-blade looked like one I had seen him use. 

"But as I did n't see a sign of the bronze box, 
I knew it was useless to stay any longer, so I 
came out. Ted fastened the door again, went 
with me to the car, which I had left down the 
road, and offered to give me any further help he 
could, at any time. He promised to keep the 

me, and told me that, the day before, he had 
caught you girls coming out of Curlew's Nest and 
that you acted rather guilty and refused to 
explain what >'0u had been in there for. He told 
me that you might possibly suspect something, 
and to steer clear of >'ou if we should happen to 
encounter each other, as it is always likely that 
peo])le will, in this town. He described what you 
both looked like, so that I could n't fail to know 

"And, sure enough, I met you both that very 
morning, in Mrs. Selby's little store, and I 
expect >'ou think I acted in a perfectly abominable 
manner. I just hated to do it, for I liked the looks 
of you both, but •! felt I must take no chances. 
Ted also told me that he had been in Curlew's 
Nest the night before and had gone over the place 
ver>' carefully once more, but had found nothing 



except a string of beads that had been torn from 
the fringe of my girdle that other night, and had 
been lying on the floor. I remember that the 
girdle caught when I was looking under one of 
the bureaus. He also gave me the broken pen- 
knife-blade to keep, as he said it was best to 
lea\e nothing around there that any one else 
could discoxer and use as a clue. 

"A day or two later I met you, Phyllis, at Aunt 
Sally's and she would insist on introducing us, 
though I could see you were no more anxious to 
make the acquaintance, after the way I 'd acted, 
than I was. But I encountered Ted again that 
afternoon, and he said he had hunted me up to 
tell me he had news and also a plan that he wanted 
to suggest. He said he had noticed, during the 
last two or three days, a strange man who seemed 
to haunt the beach, just a short way off and out 
of sight of the two bungalows. The man seemed 
to be a verj' ardent fisherman, — and an expert 
one, too, — but Ted had noticed that he kept a 
v'er%' sharp lookout toward the bungalows when 
he thought no one was around to see. He sus- 
pected that perhaps this man had something to do 
with the myster>'. 

"The plan he suggested was that I get acquain- 
ted with you girls, after all, in some way that 
seemed the most natural, but without letting you 
know that I was also acquainted with him. And 
when I had done so, I had better offer to take you 
all out for a long dri\e in the car and keep you 
away a good while, and gi\e him a chance to see 
what this man was up to — if anything. 

"The getting acquainted was easy, and you all 
know how I managed llial — and also the ride, a 
day or two later. When I was returning from 
the ride that night, at dusk, Ted signaled me from 
the bushes near Curlew's nest, jumped into the 
car, and told me what had happened in the 
afternoon. He had gone oft" to the xillage first, 
then hurried back, slipped up here by way of the 
creek, and hidden himself in a clump of rushes 
across the road. Just as he had suspected, he 
saw his suspicious fisherman sneak up here after 
a while, scout around the outside of the bungalow, 
disappear into it for a time, by the side door, 
come out. apparently empt^'-handed, stare at the 
outside again for a long time, and then at your 
bungalow, and finally disappear. But that was 
not all. 

"He waited where he was a few minutes, think- 
ing possibK' the man might come back, and he 
was just about to come out, when along came an 
automobile with two men in it, which stopped 
directlv in front of Curlew's Nest. He could not 

see their faces, for they had slouch hats pulled 
far down on their heads. They got out and walked 
about a bit, evidently to see if any one was 
around. Then, thinking themselves alone, they 
hurried up to the bungalow, worked at the side 
door, and finally got in. Shortly after, they came 
out again and walked down to the beach, where 
he could not see them. Then they came back, 
got into the car, and drove off. 

"By that time it was growing so late that he 
concluded he would stay where he was and wait 
for me to come back, which he did. Before he 
left me, we had a slight breakdown, and in help- 
ing me fix it, he hurt his hand. But that same 
night, long after midnight, he got into Curlew's 
Nest again to see if he could find out what had 
happened, and he found a ver^• strange message 
left on the table — a type-written warning to the 
one who had taken the article (as it was called 1) 
from its hiding-place to return it ; and underneath, 
a printed note in pencil saying it would be re- 
turned. He thought probably the first man had 
left the typewritten part, and the other two had 
printed the answer underneath. That was all 
he could make of it. 

"It was all ver\" mysterious, but while we could 
n't make much out of it, at least it showed that 
something concerning the affair was going on and 
that the place should be closely watched. Ted 
\olunteered to keep this watch. Meanwhile, 
Grandfather had had a \ery bad turn and I was 
with him constantly. He was terribly depressed 
o\er the whole affair. E\'en his doctor, who 
knows nothing about this, said he was evidently 
worrying about something: and if the cause of 
worr>' were not removed, he doubted the possi- 
bility of recover^'. To-night I stayed with him 
later than usual, and. in returning, actually did 
lose my way in the storm. But when I at last 
disco\ered where I was, I knew that it was not 
far from here and could not resist the temptation 
to come over and see if anything was happening. 
I found Ted also scouting around, and suddenly 
we realized that some one else was on the ground 
too, though we could not tell who. in the darkness 
and rain. But Ted thought it \er)- dangerous 
for me to be out there, so he made me come in 
here, as I did. And I need not tell you what 
happened after that!" 

Eileen ceased speaking, and Phyllis had just 
opened her lips to say something when there was 
a knock at the door. All four jumped ner\ously, 
but Ted got up and went to open it. 

To their alarm, the opened door 
re\-ealed the figure of — "the man with the limp!" 

iTo be concludtd) 



There was once a rogue who had somehow or 
other secured a jar full of money and jewels worth 
a hundred thousand rupees. Determined to 
increase his wealth, he made public announcement 
that if any one would tell him something he did 
not already know, he would gi\e that person the 
jar with its contents; but any one who tried to 
win the jar, and failed, would ha\e to pay him a 
penalty of a hundred rupees. 

Many people tried to win the prize, but no 
matter how strange the things they told the rogue, 
he would always say, "Yes, I knew that long ago!" 
And then he would claim the penalty. Thus he 
grew richer every day. 

However, a cle\er young man once came to 
him, sa>ing that he wished to tr>- his luck for 
the jar. 

"You know nn terms?" asked the rogue. 

"I do," answered the young man, "and I 
accept them." 

"Very well, then," said the rogue. "What 
ha\e you to tell me which you think I do not 

"Only this," replied the young man, who had 
taken care to bring a number of witnesses \\ith 

him, "that your father borrowed this jar full of 
money and jewels from my father and never 
returned it. Now that my father is dead and I 
am his heir, it rightfully belongs to me." 

"Oh!" began the rogue with his usual answer, 
"I knew — " Then he halted, for he suddenly saw 
that if he said he had known this for a long time, 
he would thus admit the debt and would conse- 
quently be compelled to give u|) the jar to the 
young man. 

"Why," he started in again, "1 never heard — " 
Then he stopped a second time, for he realized 
that, if he acknowledged he had never before 
heard of this, he would be forced by his agreement 
to surrender the jar. 

By this time the witnesses saw that the rascal 
had at last been caught, and with one accord they 
shouted out; 

"Give up the jar! Give up the jar!" 

He hesitated; whereupon they seized it and 
handed it to the young man. Then they dro\"e 
the rogue out of town. 

But the young man who had won the jar by 
his cle\erness li\-ed in great ease and comfort all 
the rest of his life. 

1. "r WISH Dis wrz nt so hard ter learn" 






A Review of Current Events 


It would be foolish to offer \-ou, in May, an ac- 
count of President Harding's inauguration in 
March. But it is not too late for a review of our 
new President's inaugural address. If you think 
it is, submit \ourself to this fair test: before >'ou 
read another word of this article, trj' to write 
down on paper as many of the "points" of the 
address as you can remember. If you cannot 
pass the test to your own satisfaction, it will be 
worth while to read this "piece." If you can 
pass the test, it will be fun to criticize The \\ atch 

The inaugural address of a new President of 
the United States of America ought to be strong 
and dignified, clear and simple, and packed with 
ideas for the American people to think about 
for quite a while. President Harding's address 
"filled the bill." 

America, he said, had shared the world's sor- 
row; but "we contemplate our Republic un- 
shaken, and hold our civilization secure." Law 
and liberty still rule in America. "In the begin- 
ning the Old World scoffed at our experiment; 
to-day our foundations of political and social 
belief stand unshaken, a precious inheritance to 
ourselves, an inspiring example of freedom and 
civilization to all mankind." 

Now, there are some folks who would scoff at 
this sort of talk; some, even, who would call it 
sloppy. Rut it is true talk; it can be prov-ed. 
Some things happen in this country- that make 
you wonder, but then other things happen that 
make you regret even a moment's wavering of 
your faith. But we must think hard, and work 
hard, to keep our inheritance clean and ourselves 
worthy of it. 

President Harding spoke about our relations 
with other countries. We want to be friendU', he 
said, and helpful; but we can "never subject our 

decisions to any other than our own authority." 
That, of course, refers to our relation to the league 
of Nations. We are ready to associate with other 
nations in tr>ing to keep peace in the world; we 
will be national, not international, in our conduct. 
"We shall give no people just cause to make war 
upon us. We hold no national prejudices, we 
entertain no spirit of re\enge. we do not hate, we 
do not co\et, we dream of no conquest, nor boast 
of armed prowess." 

We must practise thrift and economy-, the 
President said. We must "charge off our losses 
and start afresh." We do not need a new system 
of go^•ernment, but must get the best out of the 
old one. We must follow the period of destruc- 
tion with one of production. We must ha\"e 
industrial peace. To keep up the American 
standard of living, Mr. Harding said, we must 
have protecti\e tariffs. 

And then the new President condensed the 
whole of his eloquent address into one single 
word, a word that ever\' single one of us must 
make his motto: S-E-R-\'-I-C-E. 


In 1914, Chief-Justice White, of the SupremeCourt 
of the United States, arbitrating a boundary' line 
dispute between Panama and Costa Rica. ga\-e a 
decision which is said, through an error, to ha\e 
gix'en Costa Rica more territon,' than she claimed. 
In March of this \ear the dispute between the two 
countries was renewed, and furnished the occasion 
for the first international action b>' our State 
Department under the new Administration. 

By the Treat\- of 1903 with Panama, the United 
States undertook to guarantee the independence 
of that country-. Relying on that guarantee, 
Panama has not kept up an army. When Mr. 
Hughes took office, Costa Rica had started a raid 
on Panama, and there had been some skirmishing. 




Mr. Hughes sent a note to each of the two Gov- 
ernments involved, warning them that hostilities 
must be suspended until the case could be re-tried. 
The dispute was one in which the League of 
Nations Council would naturally be interested. 
As action by the League would involve our con- 
cern for the Monroe Doctrine, the situation 
seemed fairly well complicated. 


An American must be an .American and nothing 
else. People who come here from other countries 
to become American citizens must not wear a 

thoughtful citizens, who are not willing to have 
America misrepresented to the world. 

In mid-March more than seventy organiza- 
tions devoted to the work of .Americanization 
formed a National Council in which the\- will 
work together. Americanization means simply 
education in good citizenship. The American 
Legion is taking the lead in a manner worthy- of 
the men who fought in France. 

An excellent practical suggestion was made by 
the new commissioner-general of immigration to 
the effect that land be pro^■ided for new-comers, 
to direct them away from crowded industrial cen- 
ters, where so much discontent has its beginning. 

Wide World I'Uutod 


hyphen. We do not want German-.Americans, 
Irish-Americans, or any other kind of compound- 
.Americans. A man who moves from Texas to 
Penns>'h-ania does not call himself a Texas- 
Pennsylvanian. You don't hear of Baptist- 
Presbyterians, or Yale-Princetonians, or Eighth- 
Grade- Bo\- Scouts. America welcomes all who 
come to her intending to be loyal citizens; but 
there must be no hyphens in their baggage. 

There was in New York, early in March, a 
great meeting at which the friends of Germany 
and Ireland showed their readiness to put Ger- 
man and Irish interests ahead of American. In 
answer to this, another and still greater meeting 
was held, at which thousands of .Americans had 
the pleasure of .showing their loyalty. And 
back of these thousands were millions of quiet, 


The first census of the Japanese Empire ever 
taken fixes the population at 77,005,112. Japan 
itself has 55,961,140; Korea, 17,284,207; For- 
mosa, 3,654,000, and Saghalien, 105,765. It is 
interesting to compare these figures, and the area 
of Japan, with the figures for, say, England, New 
York State, Te.xas or California. Japan's great 
problem is that of finding land for all her people. 
Tokio, the capital, has a population of 2,173,- 
162. Osaka has 1,252,972; Kobe, 608,268; 
Kioto, 591,305; Nagoya, 429,990. .All these 
cities are larger than Yokohama, with 422,942. 
There arc fourteen Japanese cities with a popu- 
lation of more than 100,000. There are about 
125,000 more men than women in Japan. 




Japan used to be more comfortable in the old 
days of her isolation than she is now, as a modern 
civilized power. The growth of her industries 
has made great changes in the life of the people, 
and her principal problem is to find room for her 
growing population. The Japanese are hard 
workers, and when they start a colony, some one 
is sure to feel the spur of competition. 


South of Japan, east of the Philippines, north of 
New Guinea and .Australia, and far to the south- 
west from San Francisco, lies the little Island of 
Yap. If Yap were laid out neatly in an oblong, 
its area would fill only a space eight miles by ten. 

From the New York "Oloh,^" 


Its bamboo, cocoa, and palm-groves, the fishing 
in the surrounding waters, and even the pearl- 
oyster beds near by are small matters, except to 
the less than 10,000 Malayans who live on Yap. 
And yet this little island has been a storm-center 
of international politics! 

Yap is a cable station. It is the nerve-center 
of the Western Pacific, communicating by cable 
and radio with Honolulu, San Francisco, Tokio, 
Shanghai, Hong-Kong, Manila, and Port Dar- 
win. This part of the Pacific was formerh- under 
Spanish control, but after the United States ac- 
quired Guam, Germany bought the neighboring 
islands. A \ery important part of the great 
system of international communication passes 
through Guam and Yap. If the two little islands 
were to be sunk by an earthquake to-day, 
the Eastern and Western worlds would lose 

a tremendously valuable means of keeping in 

In the World War in Defense of Civilization, 
Japan took Kiao-chau and the Pacific islands 
from the Germans and occupied Yap, taking con- 
trol of its cable station. The Peace Treaty ga\'e 
the island into the control of the Allies. In 
May, 1919, the Peace Conference gave Japan a 
mandate in the islands, making her responsible 
for control of affairs in them, and in December of 
1920 the Council of the League of Nations con- 
firmed the mandate. 

Secretary of State Colby protested against 
Japanese control of the Island of Yap. The 
United States argued that the control of the cable 
station should be held over for settlement by the 
International Communications Conference, which 
met at Washington in March. But the League 
Council replied that the placing of the mandates 
was done by the Allied Council; that they had 
given Japan the mandate o\er the e.\-German 
islands north of the equator, including Yap, and 
that the Council of the League could only con- 
firm this mandate and see that it was properly 
carried out. 

The United States did not want the island, but 
did want to control the cable station. But — 
Japan would not care about the island, particu- 
larly, except for the cable control that goes with 
it. So there came up the question of "inter- 
nationalizing" the island; and late in March, 
when this instalment of the Watch Tower was 
written, the problem looked as though it still 
might need a whole lot more of sohing. 

OUR "UNKNO^^Ts^ soldier- 
Nothing in all the news that fills the daily papers 
compares in interest, it seems to me, with the 
report, published March 16. that the new Admin- 
istration had fixed next Armistice Da\' as the 
time for official national honors to The Unknown 
American Soldier, who will be buried at the 
National Cemetery at Arlington. It is said 
that there are nearly 2000 of our soldier dead 
whose bodies could not be identified. The nation 
can do no finer thing than to pay special honor 
to these men, who followed Old Glory to France, 
fought and died for .America and Civilization, 
and could not e\en have their remains cared for 
by the dear ones whom they left at home. 

America has always been defended by men who 
leave private life to learn soldiering when the 
Republic is in danger. Our good old regulars, 
the best soldiers in the world, are only typical of 
American manhood. Their splendid spirit is 
quickly caught up b>' their new comrades who 
respond when the call comes, and it means .some- 







thing when we sing "The Yanks are coming." 
America's army in the Great War can never lack 
honor while America endures, a nation of free- 
iiR'ii; hut of all the hundreds of thousands who 
put on Uncle Sam's uniform, none, not even the 
men who were left alive but permanenth' dis- 
abled, can quite equal the appeal to our emotions 
made b>' the men who fell in France, unidentified 
— the Unknown Dead. 

The ceremonies at Arlington next November 
will mark a great renewal, in America, of the 
Spirit of Nineteen-eighteen. 


Russian history- is written in blood. From the 
days of I\an the Terrible, Russia has lived through 
one Reign of Terror after another. The Bol- 
she\ik chapter has been perhaps the most terrible 
of them all. 

In March, Russian fought Russian. At Petro- 
grad, in Moscow, and in the south the Soviet 
troops battled with rebels; and as usual, the rest 
of the world hardly knew what to make of it all. 
Russia has given the world a terrific object-lesson 
in the power of people to make themselves 

The Soviet Government and the Government 
of Great Britain made a trade agreement. It is 
hard to see what there could be in such an agree- 

ment for Great Britain. Perhaps the British 
Government was really, as some critics asserted, 
only trying to satisfy discontented labor in Great 
Britain. At any rate, to us in America any kind 
of an agreement with the Go\'ernment of Lenine 
and Trotzky seems like poor business. As Mr. 
Hoover sa>'s, commodities, not gold are the sup- 
port of commerce: and Russia is not producing. 
Russia signed a peace treat\' with Poland, and 
a treaty with Turke\'. Perhaps a great new 
power is forming about the Black Sea. 


China was hungry. America heard her call. 
The churches raised something like three million 
dollars for Chinese famine relief. Other agencies 
collected large sums. We ha\e had drive after 
dri\'e, but think of a land full of hungry people! 

Our picture shows a freight-car loaded with 
corn — the first of the fifteen million bushels 
])romised b\' American farmers for the relief of 
Europe and China. 

The plea — and the answer! And an alliance 
which can hardly be unpleasantly "entangling." 


Ox March 12, the London Conference, called to 
settle tlie claims of Greece and Turkey, came to a 
close. The Supreme Council of the Allies pre- 



sented a plan for a commission to investigate the 
situation in Smyrna and Thrace. 

The Greek delegation, being called in to hear 
ihe decision, said that their National Assembly 
could not accept the arrangement without feeling 
that Greece had been called upon to surrender the 
"rights" gained "by endless sacrifices made by 
the Greek nation in common with its great Allies." 
The Assembly would not agree to promise to 
submit to an\' derision without knowing just how 








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W |J« World Photos 

it was to work out. The Greek representati\'es 
at the Conference, however, were gracious enough 
to say that they would forward to their Go\ern- 
ment anj' definite proposals the Conference might 
care to make. 

The Turks expressed their readiness to ha\e 
the commission appointed. As to the other con- 
ditions of the treaty, they hoped that the Allies 
would provide for "the existence of a free and 
independent Turkey." The Allies gently in- 
formed the Greeks and the Turks that it would be 
wise not to in.sist on details, lest the Supreme 
Council be made to feel that stronger measures 
were required. 

The general opinion was that while the Near 
East still had a few problems left for future 
solution, a step forward had been taken, and the 
air cleared. And then — Greece and Turkey 
began fighting. 


The Interstate Commerce Commission reports 
that in 1920 it cost the railroads $93.59 out of 
e\er>' $100 they earned to keep the traffic moving. 
In 1919 the amount was $85.25. 

Mr. Denby, the new secretary' of the navy, 
wants Uncle Sam to have the best navy in the 
world. He does not say "the biggest na\y," you 
will notice, but "the best navy." We can be 
"fit to fight and trained to the minute" and still 
not go around looking for a fight. Disarmament 
can hardly come about until all the nations agree 
to undertake it together; and until that happens, 
it will be a good thing for us to keep in training. 

There will be, in June, a conference of prime 
ministers of the Governments of the countries in 
the British Empire to discuss relations with 
Japan, naval policv', and British foreign policy. 

Andrew W. Mellon, the new secretary of the 
treasury, says: "The country's finances are 
sound, but the situation calls for the utmost 
economy." Nothing to be downhearted about 
in that! 

President Harding's secretar>' of war, Mr. 
Weeks, of Massachusetts, declared himself in 
favor of a single, central organization of the 
countr>-'s military' forces, including the regular 
army, the national guard, and the reserves. 
Secretary Weeks made ex-Secretary Baker a 
Colonel in the Officers' Reserve Corps. 

Ex-Vice-President Marshall spoke at Cleve- 
land soon after his retirement from office. He 
said: "America is the hope of the world. Let us 
live our democracx'. Let us make .America 
really democratic." 

"Washington, March 9. — Secretarj- Davis 
reached the Labor Department to-day at 7:30 
o'clock, an hour ahead of the office force." 

Postmaster-General H.avs promises to "hu- 
manize" his Department. 

.iXs Secretary of Commerce, Mr. Hoover has 
tackled another war job, for the struggle for 
trade in tlie coming years will be a bitter one. 

The new secretary of agriculture, Henr>' C. Wal- 
lace, says: "The people must understand that 
our prosperity as a nation depends upon a pros- 
perous and wholesome agriculture." 





Of course, every bo>' and girl knows that it is far 
more difficult to drive an aeroplane than to drive 
a motor-car, not merely because you have two 
steering-gears or rudders to take care of, one for 
sidewise and the other for up-and-down travel, 
but also because there are rudders in the wings 
of the machine which ha\e to be worked to tip or 
"bank" the machine when rounding a curve or to 
keep it on an even keel when a side gust of wind 
strikes it. 

It is hardly necessary to explain that when an 
a\-iator uses the word "rudder" he means only the 
vertical plane at the tail of his machine with 
which he steers sideways. The horizontal plane 
at the tail, with which he steers up and down, is 
the "elevator," and the rudders in the planes are 
the "ailerons." 

The driver of an automobile can see clearly the 
road he is traveling and so can avoid bumps. 
Once he is in high gear, with a fairly level road 
ahead, he has nothing to do but to tend the 
steering-wheel and "step on the gas." He does 

not need to bank his machine at curves. In some 
cases the road is already banked for him, so that 
he can take the curve at high speed. The aviator, 
howexer, has no road built for him; and traveling 
as he does at very high speeds, he must tip his 
machine to a steep angle to make a sharp turn, 
and even a gradual curve calls for some banking. 
He never knows what is ahead of him. He may 
suddenly drop into a "hole," which is really a 
downward current of air, or he may have a bump 
when he strikes a rising air-current. A freaky 
whim of the winds may suddenly take away the 
support from under one of the wings, and he will 
lurch and dip sharply on that side. 

The pilot is blind to all these pitfalls and must 
control his machine largely by the sense of feeling, 
and he also depends to a larger extent than is 
generally realized upon his view of the earth or 
of clouds beneath him. If he is enshrouded in 
fog or tries to sail through a heavy bank of clouds, 
he is quite likely to lose all sense of direction. 
He will not know whether he is banking or travel- 
ing on an even keel. Sometimes aviators have 





come out of a cloud, and found themselves dan- 
gerously close to the earth in an awkward posi- 
tion — a steep bank, a side-slip, or even in a 
nose-dive. In some cases where the clouds were 
very low, they have not had time to right them- 
selves before crashing to earth. 

Before flying can become really safe, some way 
must be found of keeping the machine on an even 
keel without depending upon the eyes and the 
sense of equilibrium of the pilot. There have 
been many efforts to invent a suitable "stabilizer," 
as such a dexice is called. 

The first stabilizers used a pendulum to show 
when the machine was level. If the airplane 
lipped, the pendulum would make an electric 
contact with the side that was down, and this 
would start electric motors which would set the 
ailerons to bring the machine back to level. 

But the trouble with a pendulum, even when 
it is so arranged that it will not get to swinging 
back and forth, is that centrifugal force will make 
it move out of the true vertical position when the 
machine turns or lurches. A more successful 
stabilizer is one that is operated by a g> roscope, 
in place of a pendulum, but a gyroscope is rather 
heavy for a flying-machine, and it is liable to 
cut up and perform capers of its own when the 
airplane is tossing about in gusty weather. 

A new stabilizer has just been invented by a 
Frenchman, M. Georges A\eline, which is \'ery 
ingeniously worked out. Evidently it must be 
more than a freak invention, because the British 
Air Ministry is fitting twelve of its big bombing- 
machines with the Aveline stabilizer. With this 
automatic pilot installed, the aviator need have 
no worry at all. He can take his hands off the 
controls and let the machine run itself. All he 
has to do is to operate the rudder with his feet. 
The automatic pilot works the elevator and the 
ailerons. It takes care of "bumps" and "holes" 
and sees that the machine banks properly when 
turning. This is even simpler than running a 
motor-car, because one does not need to worr>' 
about speed-gears when climbing and does not 
have to slow down for a curve. 

In our drawing, the artist has put the X-rays 
on the machine, so that we can look right through 
the walls of the fuselage and see one of the stabili- 
zers in the cockpit and also the compressed-air 
tank. This stabilizer runs across the cockpit 
and takes care of the ailerons. There is another 
stabilizer, not shown in the drawing, that runs 
lengthwise of the machine and takes care of the 
elevator. The X-ray effect enables us also to .see 
line (if the pumps for filling the air reser\oir. 
This pump is connected to a "windmill" screw or 
propeller, which is driven by the rush of air when 
the airplane is under way. There are two of these 

pumps, one at each side, located under the fuse- 
lage where they will get the full sweep of the wind. 

In the cockpit, on the dashboard, there is an 
indicator consisting of three small electric lamps. 
When the airplane is flying on an even keel these 
signal lamps are dark; but a tilt to port will light 
the left-hand one, and a tilt to starboard, the 
right-hand one, while the center lamp shows 
whether the machine is diving. 

The mechanism of the two stabilizers is ver>- 
much the same. The one shown in the inset is 
'that used for controlling the ailerons. The 
drawing is not a true picture of the mechanism, 
but a sort of diagram in which only the principal 
parts are shown, so as to make it easier to under- 
stand how it all works. 

To start with, there is a disk which has a circu- 
lar bore in it half filled with mercurj-. This cor- 
responds to a pendulum; for as the airplane tilts 
to one side or the other, the mercur>- will tr>' to 
keep its level, flowing out of the high side. At 
the bottom of the mercury tube, there is an elec- 
tric contact. A; and just above the normal level 
of the mercur\-, there are two more electric con- 
tacts, B and C. If the machine should tip 
toward the left, contact C would be submerged in 
the mercury and then things would begin to 

Those who are sufficientK' up on electricity to 
read a wiring diagram can trace out for themselves 
the electrical circuits. First, the port signal- 
lamp lights up, and then, through a relay, two 
electro-magnets on the left-hand side are ener- 
gized. One of these magnets closes an exhaust- 
valve, and the other opens an inlet-valve, letting 
compressed air into the left end of a cylinder at 
the bottom of the stabilizer. In this cylinder, 
there are two pistons connected by a bar or pis- 
ton-rod. On this rod there is a toothed rack 
which meshes with a toothed sector. When 
compressed air enters the left-hand end of the 
cylinder, the pistons are moxed toward the right 
and the sector is turned on its axis in the direction 
of the arrow. Connected to this sector are the 
wires that run to the ailerons. This connection 
is at the back of the sector and so is not shown in 
the drawing, but it will be readily understood that 
the ailerons are tipped so as to bring the machine 
back to an e\en keel. 

As the machine rights itself, the contact, C, is 
carried out of the mercury, breaking the electric 
circuit, and the inlet-\alve closes, while the ex- 
haust-vah'e opens. Then the pressure of the 
wind against the ailerons flattens them back to 
their normal position, carrying the pistons back 
to the position they started from. 

This seems very siinple, but there is a complica- 
tion that has to be pro\ided for. If the ailerons 




were held in tilted position until the machine was 
on an even keel, they would make the aeroplane 
swing too far; it would rock over to the other side, 
and the machine would roll back and forth more 
and more violently. To bring the aeroplane 
back without overshooting the mark, the electric 
circuit must be broken before the machine returns 
to the level position. This is provided for by 
securing a small sector on the large one. This 
small sector meshes with a set of gear-teeth on 
the mercury disk so that, as the pistons move 
toward the right, the disk turns in the direction 
of the arrow, carrying the contact, C, out of the 

Of course, if the machine should dip to the 
right, the valves on the right would be operated 
and the parts would all move as they did before, 
but in the opposite direction. 

So far, the niercur\' has been used just like a 
pendulum, and everything works out all right 
while the machine is traveling straight ahead. 
But now let us see what would happen if the 
machine started to make a turn, say to the right. 
First of all, the mercurj' would be thrown toward 
the left by centrifugal action — that is, it would 
surge up on the left side, submerging contact C. 
This would operate the ailerons to raise the left 
side of the machine and depress the right side. 
In other words, the airplane would be properly 
banked. But after getting into this position, the 
ailerons must be brought back to neutral position 
or they would keep on tilting the machine until it 
stood on edge. 

Here is where the real genius of the inventor 
shows itself. At the top of the mercury channel 
in the disk there is a dividing wall, and a tube 
runs from the left side of this wall to the right 
wing of the airplane and from the right side of 
this wall to the left wing. At the end of each 
tube, there is what is known as a "Venturi tube." 
This is a kind of suction device operated by the 
wind. The wind that flows through the left 
Venturi tube sucks the air out of the right-hand 
side of the mercury tube, and the right Venturi 
sucks air out of the left-hand side of the mercury 
tube. The stronger the wind, the greater the 
suction. Now, when making a turn to the right, 
the left wing must travel faster than the right 
wing, and so there must be more suction in the 
left Venturi. This produces a greater suction in 
the right-hand side of the mercury tube, which 
draws the mercur\' up on that side and down on 
the other, until the contact is broken at C and the 
ailerons are returned to neutral position. 

The mechanism is so arranged that the human 
pilot can throw out the automatic pilot instantly 
if anything goes wrong, or if he should wish to 
put his machine through special manoeuvers. 

The weight of the automatic pilot is about 150 
pounds. In other words, it weighs as much as a 
human pilot. However, it is being built in 
lighter form for smaller machines. Even though 
it does weigh as much as an extra man, the extra 
load will not be begrudged so long as it insures 
perfect safety in flight. 

A. RiissELL Bond. 

The first phonograph records were wax cylinders 
that had to be handled very carefully and were 
very bulky. Then the disk record was invented, 
and it proved so rugged and handy that the 
cylinder record had to give way to it. But disk 



9^^ '.V 





'f ■ 'S, P» 





records are fragile and quite liable to crack if 

As a substitute for the disk record, an inventor 
has recently brought out a "thread" record, which 
is so compact that a five-minute talk may be 
coiled in a watch case. The thread is made of a 
special composition, and on it the point of a 
recording needle cuts the record in the same way 
that the ordinary recording needle cuts its record 
on a disk or cylinder. Then the thread is run 
through the machine under a reproducing needle, 
and the thread gives back the sounds that have 
been recorded upon it. 

One thing that has to be guarded against is 
twist. If the thread turns over on its side, the 
reproducing needle will not bear on the record; 
and so care must be taken to run the thread 
through with the record side always uppermost. 




Any ordinary thread will twist, because it is made 
up of twisted fibers; but the inventor calls this 
thread "structureless" — that is, it has no twisted 
fibers in it, and hence it can be wound up or reeled 
off without showing any tendency to twist. 

The advantages of this kind of a record are 
apparent. Instead of writing a letter to your 
friend, >ou may put your message on a thread 
and send it to him or her by mail. 

A. Russell Bond. 


The constellations whose acquaintance we will 
make this month are ones that will be found on 
or near the meridian between eight and nine 
o'clock in the evening during the first two weeks 
of IVIa>'. In the course of the month these star- 
groups will gradually shift westward, their places 
near the meridian being taken at the same hour 
by other groups of stars now in the eastern sky. 

Ursa Major, the Great Bear, and Ursa Minor, 
the Lesser Bear, or, as they are more familiarly- 
called, the Big Dipper and the Little Dipper, are 
the best known of all the constellations visible 
in northern latitudes. They are called circum- 
polar constellations, which means "around-the- 
pole," and above forty degrees north latitude 
they never set, but can be seen at all hours of the 
night and at all times of the year. In winter 
evenings they lie below the pole and near the 
horizon, and so are usually hidden more or less 
from view by trees or buildings. It is during the 
evenings of late spring and summer that these 
two constellations are seen to the best advantage 
high in the sky above the pole. If you look due 
north at the time mentioned, you will find them. 

The two stars in the bowl of the Big Dipper, 
through which an arrow is drawn in the chart, 
are called the Pointers, because an imaginar>' line 
drawn through these two stars and continued a 
distance about equal to the length of the Big 
Dipper brings us to the star Polaris, or the North 
star, at the end of the handle of the Litde Dipper, 
which is very close to the north pole of the heavens, 
the direction in which the earth's axis points. 
The pole lies on the line connecting the star at 
the bend in the handle of the Big Dipper with 
Polaris and is only one degree distant from the 

The distance between the Pointers is ti\e 
degrees of arc, and the distance from the more 
northerly of these two stars to Polaris is nearly 
thirty degrees. We may find it useful to remem- 
ber this in estimating distances between objects 
in the heavens. 

At the equator the pole-star lies in the horizon; 
at the north pole of the earth it is in the zenith 

or directly over head. Its altitude or height 
above the horizon is alwa>'s equal to the latitude 
of the place. As we travel northward from the 
equator toward the pole we see Polaris higher and 
higher in the sky. In New York the distance of 
Polaris from the horizon is forty degrees, which is 
the latitude of this city. 

The Pointers indicate the direction of true 
North, while the height of Polaris above the hori- 
zon gives us our latitude. 

These kindly stars direct us by night when we 
are uncertain of our bearings, whether we travel 
by land or sea or air. They are the friends and 
aids of na\igators, e.xplorers, and aviators, who 
often turn to them for guidance by night. 

The star at the bend in the handle of the Big 
Dipper, called Mizar, is of special interest. If you 
ha\e good eyesight, you will see close to it a faint 
star. This is Alcor, which is the Arabic word for 
"The Test." The two stars are often called the 
Horse and the Rider. 

Mizar and Alcor form what is known as a wide 
double star. It is, in fact, the widest of all 
double stars. All stars are really suns, like ours, 
but many stars in the hea\ens that appear single 
to us are shown by the telescope to be double or 
even triple or multiple. They consist of two or 
more suns revoh'ing about a common center, 
known as their center of gravity'. 

Sometimes the suns are so close together that 
even the most powerful telescope will- not separate 
them. Then a most wonderful little instrument, 
called the spectroscope, steps in and analyzes the 
light of the stars and shows which are double and 
which are single. A star shown to be double by 
the spectroscope, but not by the telescope, is 
called a spectroscopic double star. 

Mizar is of historic interest as being the first 
double star to be detected with the telescope. .\ 
\'ery small telescope will split Mizar up into two 
stars, and these two stars, or suns, are known to 
be only twenty-five million miles apart. The 
brighter of the two is a spectroscopic double 
besides, which means that it is really two suns 
instead of one, but the distance between the two 
is so small that e\'en the telescope cannot separate 
them, .•\bout this system of three suns which we 
know as the star Mizar, the faint star .\lcor 
revoK-es at a distance from thein equal to .sixteen 
thousand times the distance of the earth from the 

Polaris also is a double star that can be easily 
separated into two stars by means of a sinall 
telescope, and the brighter of the two has been 
shown by the spectroscope to be three suns in- 
stead of one. It is now known that there are 
many stars in the hea\ens which are made up 
of two or more suns together. 



To complete the outline of the Great Bear, it 
is necessary to include faint stars to the east, 
which form the head of the Bear, and other faint 
stars to the south, which form the feet, but these 
are all inconsyjicuous and of little general interest. 

If we follow the imaginary line drawn through 
the Pointers in a sonlhcrlv direction about forty- 

The constellations are groups of stars in the 
background, against which we see the compara- 
tively near-by planets projected. The planets 
may appear to be in the constellations, but they 
are not of them. The>' gradually pass on to 
another part of the heavens as they journey 
around the sun; and if we watch the positions of 





iaclocppe./ 1^ 


five degrees, we come to Leo, the Lion, one of the 
zodiacal constellations through which pass the 
sun, moon, and planets in their circuit of the 

At present this constellation is particularly 
conspicuous through the presence in it of two 
brilliant planets, Jupiter and Saturn, which we 
do not show on the chart of Leo since they are 
seen within the bounds of this constellation only 
temporarily and will pass out of it within a few 

Jupiter is the brightest object to be seen in the 
heavens at this time, far surpassing Saturn in 
brilliancy, as well as Regulus, the beautiful white 
star which marks the heart of Leo and the handle 
of the Sickle. This sickle-shaped group also 
outlines the head of the Lion. 

The two planets are at this time only about 
nine degrees apart and a few degrees south of the 
line that connects Regulus with Denebola, the 
star that is in the tail of Leo. 

Planets are dark bodies shining only b>' reflected 
light from our sun, while the stars are themselves 
suns, shining by their own light. Saturn and 
Jupiter appear brighter than the stars simply 
because they are, comparatively, so near to us. 
So much nearer are the planets than the stars 
that the light from them takes only a few 
minutes to reach us, while the light of the stars 
takes years. The stars are in reality moving 
rapidly through space, but they appear immov- 
able for centuries because their distance from the 
sun and his planets is so tremendously great. 

Jupiter and Saturn from month to month, we 
shall see for ourselves that they are moving past 
the star-groups in which they appear to be tempo- 
rarily located. 

There should be no difficulty in finding the 
constellation Leo, as its peculiar sickle-shaped 
group of bright stars makes it distinctive from all 
others. At the time we have mentioned, it will 
lie a little to the southwest of the zenith. Leo is 
one of the finest of the constellations and is al- 
ways associated with the spring months because 
it is then high in the sky in the evening. 

Due south of Denebola about thirt\' degrees, 
we shall find the small star-group known as Crater, 
the Cup, which is composed of rather faint and 
inconspicuous stars. Just east of Crater is the 
group known as Corvus, the Crow, which forms 
a very characteristic little four-sided figure of 
stars differing ver>- little from one another in 

These two star-groups lie far to the south in our 
latitudes; but if we lived twenty degrees south 
of the equator, we should find them nearly over- 
head at this time of year. 

Next month we will take up the constellations 
that lie near the meridian during the early even- 
ing hours from the first to the middle of June. 
We must bear in mind, however, that we cannot 
become acquainted with the stars through books 
alone, but with our charts in hand, must go out- 
doors and discover for ourselves the various star- 
groups whose acquaintance we wish to make. 

Isabel M. Lewis. 






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Our preface this month shrinks to a bnet note because of the obvious tact that the contributions of our zealous 
young members have overtiowed into the space usually allotted to the Introduction. But who could wish for a 
better Introduction to the League than is supplied by the following admirable little essay on "The Road" and the 
charming spring rondel that accompanies it.' 



(Cold Badge. Silver Badge won November, igig) 
I AM the road. Like man. I am born, I live, flourish, 
wither, and die. Like man, I progress with the centu- 
ries. I spring from an Indian trail, a deer path leading 
to a pool; I spring from a brook bed; I am crossed off; 
I grow until I become a thriving thoroughfare — a high- 
way for rich and poor, good and bad, big and little. 
The primeval warrior made me to become a short-cut 
to his cave; the Egyptian put me to good use; the Greek 
made me beautiful; and the Roman gave me perfection. 
I am the .\ppian Way; I am Fifth Avenue; I am the 
Lincoln Highway — I am ever>-thing that gives to man 
a route to progress and a path to experience. Lacking 
me. mountains would not have been crossed, deserts 
would remain barren, forests uncut, and buildings un- 
built. No people on this earth survive without me, 
excepting the \'enetian. The horse would remain use- 
less, the automobile uninvented, if it were not for me. 
Corduroy, street, trail, path, subway, or avenue, over 
mountains, stretched across measureless prairies, 
plains and deserts, through cities or forests — anywhere 

and everywhere. I am a road and lead mankind — yet I 
am what mankind makes me. 

Yea — great is the romance of the road! 

A Rondel 


(Honor Member) 
Springtime comes with her fair face glowing, — 

Star-eyed Spring, — and she calls to me. 
Flying, fleet, with her bright hair flowing. 

Bearing dew from the shining sea. 
And she sings with the birds and the breezes blowing. 

Nursing the buds on a leafing tree. 
Springtime comes with her fair face glowing, — 

Star-eyed Spring, — and she calls to me. 
So away to the fields where the flowers are growing. 

To sip the dew with the droning bee; 
.-^nd away to the tree-crowned hills I 'm going. 

To race where the sky-born ^^•inds run free. 
Springtime comes with her fair face glowing, — 

Star-eyed Spring. — and she calls to me. 


(In making awards contributors' ages are considered) 
PROSE. Gold Badges, Anne Waldron (age 15), California: Elinor Welch (age 10), Connecticut: Elizabeth 
Cleaveland (age 14), Minnesota; Silver Badges, Mary E. Ballard (age 15), Massachusetts; Claire Faitoute 
(age 12), New Jersey; Paul White (age 12), Texas; Mary J. Folsom (age 15), Wisconsin. 
VERSE. Gold Badges, Margaret Humphrey (age 13), Oregon; Margaret C. Schnidler (age 14), Wisconsin: 
Rae Verrill (age 13), Canada; Helen Grace Davie (age 16), California. Silver Badges, Ralph Sargent 
Bailey (age 16), Massachusetts; Helen R. Ohl (age 17), Pennsylvania; Margaret W. Hall (age 14), .Massa- 
chusetts; Billy Carman (age 15), Minnesota; Dorothy Jayne (age 15), Idaho. 

DRAWINGS. Gold Badge, Penelope Lewis (age 12), Connecticut. Silver Badges, Jacob Jankowitz 
(age 15), New York; Dorothy F. H. Anderson (age 17), California; Dorothy Van Gorder (age 14), Colorado; 
Mary Lundberg (age 13), Pennsylvania. 

PHOTOGRAPHS. Gold Badge, Erika Peters (age 14), Texas. Silver Badges, Alice McNeal (age 14), 
Missouri; Catherine Fox (age 12), Wisconsin; Elizabeth Wrightman (age 13), New York; Helen Symonds 
(age 15), Massachusetts: Emma Daniels (age 15), Nebraska; F. Ethel Fulper (age 12), New Jersey. 
PUZZLE-MAKING. Gold Badges. Alice Sherburne (age 15), Massachtisetts; Lydia A. Cutler (age 15), 
Minnesota. Silver Badge, Derexa Whitcomb Pentreath (age. 14), Indiana. 
PUZZLE ANSWERS. Silver Badge, Dorothy Donaldson (age 14), New York. 








(Silver Badge) 

When the sorely tried commuter, in his bact:-yard 

garden plot. 

Starts to wildly wield the rake and hoe and spade; 

When the ever bashful lover takes the blue forget-me-not 

With youthful ardor to his chosen maid; 

When the portly cotton magnate grumbles at a ninety- 
.\nd sa\s his breakfast put him off his game; 
When the rubber-booted angler, with his rod and reel 
and bait. 
Splashes gravely in pursuit of fishy fame; 

When the bone-begoggled student dumps liis bi>oks 
upon the floor. 
And tells the world he 's out to have his fling; 
Just recall that vanquished Winter has indeed gone 
out the door; 
Just remember, gentle reader, that it 's Spring. 

(A True Story) 


(Silver Badge) 
Mother, Daddy, and I left Chicago at seven o'clock 
one night in midwinter, on the Overland Limited for 
San Francisco. We were in the observation car, which 
is the last one, and we had a drawing-room in the center 
of the car. 

Two nights later we were awakened at about one- 
thirty by a terrible crash. Every one was startled, and 
as soon as possible we got up to investigate, and found 
that we were at the top of the Rocky Mountains in a 
driving blizzard, and the snow was so deep that the tele- 
graph-wires rested on the snow! .And the car was ele- 
vated ten feet with the engine of the snow-plow, which 
had been following us. under it, with the front of the 
snow-plow right through the car up to the writing- 
desk. We all moved into the smoking-car. and our car. 
called Black Beauty, was left with the snow-plow in the 

The train had a powerful light on the end; and when 
questioned why he did not see this light, the engineer 
of the snow-plow said that he had been working for 
fort\--eight hours without sleep and had gone to sleep 
in the engine. 

Luckily no one was hurt except one man, who had 
his knee fractured. 

Now Mother always looks to see if the car Black 
Beauty is on our train, because we afterward heard 
that that car had had many accidents, and everybody 
considered it an unlucky car. 



(Gold Badge. Silver Badge won May, iQ2o) 
"Then the whining school-boy. with his satchel 
And shining morning face, creeping like snail 
Unwillingly to school. 

("As You Like It": Act II, Scene 7) 
There you have the tale entire; for that self-same 
school-boy creeps along another road — The Road to 
Learning. He ascends with more or less facility the 
long upward pull of grammar school. Then he reaches 
a door, and above it is written "Latin Grammar." O 
young pilgrim, the mountains grow very rough! Also 
there is another gate called ".Algebra," from which he 

plunges from Latin Ridge into a slough which rivals 
that of the famous Christian. From the algebraic slough 
he struggles (possibly with the help of one who has 
passed that way before and is familiar with its twists 
and turns). Over History and English does he plod, 
looking continually up toward his goal, college credit 
for to the strongest fall the fruits of battle. Latin Ridge 
is becoming almost level, with only a few steep places 



here and there. English and History are merging into 
a broad meadow-land. 

In the next period of his pilgrimage is opened unto 
him "Modern Languages." Over the slopes of Chem- 
istry, slaying the dragon Geometry' with the sword 
Common Sense, onward and upward he climbs, till at 
length he passes through the portals of college. On- 
ward he struggles and still upward, but climbing now 
the mountains upon which he has determined. Then 
at last he halts, holding in his hand his diploma, and, 
standing at the top, looks back — and laughs! 



(.Silver Badge) 
Oh. springtime in the South! where at the mom 

The mocking-bird trills forth a carol gay; 
Where through the trees the cardinal is borne 

On flaming wings. .And. like a golden ray. 
The wild canary glows 'mid dark-green pines; 

The querulous catbird mews in fragrant haunts; 

The dogwood all its whitened banners flaunts; 
The dainty iris grows — its bright gold shines; 
Its purple vies with neighboring violets' tints; 

The trumpet-flower sends forth blood-red gleams; 
The scented jasmine like the sunshine glints; 

The sweet, white violet dwells by mossy streams; 
The sapphire sky shades into amethyst; 
Oh southern spring! with thee I 'U keep my tryst. 






{Gold Badge. Silver Badge won February, iQZd) 
Is there other time so dear? 
Never, throughout all the year! 

Bluebells sway on slender stems. 

Lilies glow — pale, pearly gems; 

Orchids' opalescent hues 

Shine in the swamp. Wet with spring dews 

Sweet May-flowers blow in hidden places, 

Or daisies fill all open spaces. 

Many the cowslips 'round the spring; 

The birds thro' flutt'ring petals sing. 
In every land the folk love May. 
Mid blossoms sw-eet the children pla>"; 
Ever ^vill blossom time be gay ! 



(Silver Badge) 
Two days last summer I hauled lumber from a planing- 
mill in east Texas to a farm about seven miles away. 
It took a whole day to make a round trip, counting 
waiting for lumber to be planed. I had company, be- 
cause four wagons were hauling the same as I. 

Nothing happened the first day; but on the second, 
Mr. Balcom and I took a short cut home. As we came 
down a small sandy hill I noticed my lumber slipping 
forward. I tried to stop the team, but the lumber slid 
down upon them. They started running. What was 
I to do? Run into the man below, or turn into the 
woods? I chose the latter. I pulled my team into the 
thick woods. There was a hard jar — I was on the 
ground. The wagon had run into a stump, breaking 
two trace-chains, and the coupling-pole. I was unhurt. 







The road that leads through Concord is a winding one, 
passing by many interesting places. 

A little way into the town is Louisa May Alcott's 
home. On each side of the doorway stands a huge elm. 
(It used to be the custom long ago for the husband and 
wife each to plant a tree by the doorway.) The house is 
an old, brown, weather-beaten one. Set back a little 
way. in the woods behind the house, is Mr. .-Vlcott's 
little school-house. It is very plain, quaint, and old- 
fashioned. Within the house we see the small attic 
room where Miss .-Mcott wrote "Little Women." 

We then leave the house and again follow the twisting 
road, past Hawthorne's "Old Manse." It, too, is brown 
and weather-beaten. About a block away is a white 
building with bright green blinds — a true old New 
England home. It is where Emerson lived. 

We ride on for a time, passing all the quaint, queer 
houses, and see on his pedestal in the middle of the 
street, just before the Old North Bridge, the statue of 
the minute-man. erected in honor of the soldiers who 
fell in the battle. Old North Bridge has been torn down, 
but the bridge built in its place is said to be much like 
it. What I learned of the story of the roads of Concord 
I shall never forget. 



(Silver Badge) 
'T IS heigh-ho for the blossoming spring-time 

.And heigh-ho for the golden day; 
'T is heigh-ho for the greening wild-woods 

.And a song for the month o' May. 

Oh. there 's joy all 'round about us; 

There 's joy in the babbling brook; 
There 's joy in the birds' mad carol; 

Joy dwells in the w-oodland nook. 
So heigh-ho for the birds a-mating. 

And heigh-ho for the blossoming fields. 
And a song for all the pleasure 

Our joyous springtime yields. 

There 's a whisper in the south-wind, 

"Oh. cast your cares away! 
Come, frolic with me in the meadow; 

With me, he glad and gay!" 
So heigh-ho for the blossoming springtime. 

And heigh-ho for the golden day; 
Heigh-ho for the greening wild-woods 

And a song for the month o' May. 






.\[ M 1-. M. M-AL. AGE 14 



(Silver Badge) 
We were riding slowLy up one of the steepest inclines 
of the Mohawk Trail when the engine suddenly stopped. 
Fortunately, Father was able to find the trouble, and 
while he repaired the break we walked on up the moun- 
tain road to "explore." We came upon a path which, 
from appearances, had not been used for some time, 
and, to our surprise, Louise seemed to grow excited. 
"I 've seen it at last!" she cried. 

"Seen what?" we asked in amazement. 

"Why, don't you know? This is the place where the 
road branches off and meets the trail of the Mohawk 
Indians!" she replied. 

After we had calmed down to some extent, she told 
us the story. 

"Every year, when the Mohawk Indians crossed 
from the Hudson River to the Connecticut River to 
catch the salmon which came up the Connecticut from 
the Sound, they followed this same trail. 

"It happened that this trail crossed Florida Mountain 
and proved the easiest route of travel from one side to 
the other; so when a road was built, the engineers 
naturally followed the old trail. In some places, where 
it was too steep, the trail was left for a short distance; 

and this path is one of the places where it was too steep 
to follow." 

"Oh!" was all that we could say. "To think of seeing 
a real Indian trail!" 

"And that is n't all, either," said Louise; "for this 
very road passes over the Hoosac Tunnel, the longest 
railroad tunnel in the United States!" 

We were quite startled when Father came up with 
the automobile, for the thought of being on an Indian 
trail had made us alert to all sounds. 

After telling Father the story we turned our atten- 
tion to "the road." 



{Gold Badge. Silver Badge won January. 1021) 
Fairyland is all awake, for I see the grasses shake 
Where the little people go. Lightly dancing to and fro, 
Round about the fairy ring, in the long warm nights of 

In the center, on the ground. Queen Titania is found. 
With her consort, Oberon, who a toadstool sits upon. 
Peter Pan his pipes will blow as they circling round 

him go. 
Weirdly high and shrill pipes he for the fairy company. 
When such music he will make, fairyland is all awake. 





ST. NICHOLAS i.i:a(; 








(Gold Badge. Silver Badge won January, J921) 
Across the meadoxvs garbed in green, «here the wild 

narcissus grow 
And snowdrops peep from shady nooks. lit:e flat:es of 

sparkling snow; 
Where rosy petals from the trees are strewn iijjon the 

Proserpina. Herald of Spring, will, dancing lightly, pass. 
The swallowtails, in yellow coats all trimmed with 

black and blue. 
Will court the golden daffodils — they 're lovers fond 

and true. 

The little brook runs babbling on and ripples down the 

Now murmuring in gladsome song and blithesome. 

happy trill. 
The little birds burst out' in song. — for all is wondrous 

gay. — 
While in the pasture just ahead are little lambs at play. 
The zephyrs sing their song of love and drift among the 

The little white-caps on the sea are dancing in the 

The bell up there in tlie belfry tall peals out its joyful 

It seems to say: " 'T is Spring! 't is Spring! — and this 

is blossom timel" 



(Honor Member) 
"Senor." Amelio. the squat little Mexican rider, was 
speaking to his thoroughbred. "Seiior. the bandidos are 
after us! Cielos! And I have promised you to el Seiior 
(the master] safe at Juarez by to-morrow night. Cielos 
again I They are closer, mi SeSor; they are after you. O 
mi Caballol" 

.\ long stretch of desert lay in front of horse and rider; 
a longer stretch behind. A little gully and a stream 

bed were farther on. .Amelio seemed to know the place. 
He dismounted there and began unsaddling Seiior. .^s 
he did so. he chuckled: 

"Now for the transformation. Xovio niio! ,4 nda!" He 
let! the way to the bottom of the stream bed and pointed 
to the mud. "Lie down!" A Mexican thoroughbred 
never hesitates. Down he went into the mud. "Roll!" 
Senor rolled. Then the keen little groom produced 
some shears and went to work. 

Meanwhile, the ring of horses' hoofs was rapidly 
coming nearer. The hoof-beats echoed through the 
cactus aisles of the desert. 

When the bandidos came up to Amelio they saw a 
very ragged fellow cutting wood, and an old. decrepit 
nag standing listlessly b>'. The leader addressed the 
peon in voluble, disrespectful Spanish. Had he seen a 
horse, ajine horse, pass that way? They had lost one — 
a wonderful animal. He did n't know? He was "iin 
bobo" [a stupid fellow] then! And on the fierce-looking 
bandidos rode. 

When they were out of sight, Amelio turned to the 
muddy, unkempt beast. "Seiior," he said, in high good 
humor, "we are actors as good as those at £( Teairo de 
Mejico, no es vcrdad? [Is it not true?] No, Seiior, we 
shall not stop to wash. .Ahora!" 

.And they took the road, at the pace of a thorough- 
bred only, toward Juarez across the desert. 


19.- 1 1 




{Silver Badge) 
When the sky has lost its gra\ ness 

And the sun shines bright again; 
When the smell of green things growing 

Seems to follow close the rain, 
Then I hear the soft winds whisper. 

Light as birds upon the wing. 
And they murmur sw-eetly to mr 

Just the one word, "Spring!" 

V\'hen the trees haYe gained the grandeur 

That they lost with winter's snow. 
And the plum-trees with their blossoms 

Heavy laden, bend more low. 
Then the brooklet, rushing onward, 

Pausing in his course to sing. 
While I listen, softly \vhispers 

Just the one word, "Spring!" 

When the robins in the orchard 

Sing with joy of mating-time. 
With the help of Mother Nature 

Heaven and Earth are sure to rhyme. 
As I sit there, musing, dreaming. 

Happier than any king. 
Comes a child who whispers softly 

Just the one word, "Spring!" 



(.Silver Badge) 
A BREEZE that was sailing through tree-tops one day 
Saw an orchard asleep — 'T was the middle of May. 
He said with a w-ink, "I see 't is my duty 
To awake with a kiss this old sleeping beauty" 
So softly he whispered, "Wake up, my old dear; 
It 's the spring of the year. Time for the blossoms is 

I invite all the blossoms and bid them be gay." 
And he gave her a kiss ere he sped on his way. 

The blossoms came forth as soft as caresses. 

Gaily decked out in their dear little dresses; 

And the lazy brown orchard that zephyr had kissed 

Was hidden as tho' by a lacy white mist. 

When the breeze saw the blossoms, he made them a 

.And they all dropped him curtsies, as blossoms know 

Then he w-histled a gay little tune, if you please. 
And the blossoms all nodded and danced with the 




(Silver Badge) 
It was early Christmas morning in ninetccn-seventeen. 
and over bumps and holes. Sergeant DeNyse was 
driving his big truck. How gloomy and wet it was! 
And what a beast of a place for a fellow to be. anyway! 
But it was war. so. trying to keep in mind the box 
from home which was, no doubt, awaiting him, the 
sergeant drove on. 

"What 's this?" asked Private Ted Conroy. who 
was with him. straining his neck for a better view r>f 
some trucks coming toward them. 

In a few minutes Sergeant DeNyse drew up alongside 
of the first truck, that had just been stopped by its driver. 

"Fifty-first Pioneer!" announced one of the new- 

ready. by otho b. 

blake. age 16 

(honor member) 


comers, and the blue-eyed ser- 
geant's face fairly beamed. 

"Oh, boy!" he breathed. "Could it be possible?" 

Then, aloud, he called out: 

"Private Will DeNyse happen to be in the bunch. 
Buddy?" and he scanned the other trucks expectantly. 

"Sure thing. Art!" came a new voice. 

It was n't long before the two brothers were grasping 
each other's hands, and Private Conroy gazed upon 
them with a lump in his throat. 

"For the love of Mike." the sergeant was blurting 
out, "I 've been looking for you since spring!" 

Private Will did not trust himself to answer at once, 
but when he did, it was rather chokily. 

"On Christmas day at that, old chap." he answered. 
"Glory! But Mother will be glad!" 



(Gold Badge. Silver Badge won May. itjjo) 
Da lady from da "Settlament" ees com' 

An' ask eef she can tak' us out wan day — 
Ma leetla brudder Angelo an' me — 

For see da pretta field', an' run an' play 
Off from da dirta, smala street' 
Were birda, flower', an' tree' wan no can meet, 
To nice-a land w''ere eet ees bright an' clean, 
.An' evra theeng ees sweet an' fresh an' green. 

Da Iad>' say: "Da Spreeng ees here — enjoy!" 

We chasa den da butterfly an' bee; 
We runna. laugha — ah ! so free an' gay, 

Wc ees so happ\' — Angelo an' me. 
.\ birda sudden from da grass ees spreeng; 
Eet i\y up vera high, an' seeng an' seeng. 
So warma ees da sun, so blue da sky. 
So pretta all — I mos' baygeen to cry. 

I-)a kinda lad\' call at las' an' say: 

"Night ees com' soon — an' chil'ren home mus' be!" 
But firs" we pecck da pretta bundia fiower' 

l^'or our poor Mama — Angelo an' me. 

Back here ees Mama seeck — da babj- too; 
Ua room so dark, so small no sun com' thro. 
Steel een my heart I hear da birda seeng — 
Eet .seem' to say, "Not far da Landa Spreeng!" 



I May 

(silver badge) 



(Gold Badge. Silver Badge won February, 1921) 
One morning, Edith Long was out in a sleigh with her 
grandfather on one of the country roads near Boston. 
She was not in a very good humor, and as the road was 
both long and muddy, she began to get tired of just 
sitting and not getting any\vhere and cried impatiently, 
"What a stupid road this is!" 

Her grandfather smiled and said, "Well, perhaps it 
is. But if you knew what this road knows, you would 
think better of it." 

"What this road knows?" Edith repeated. "What 
does this road know. Grandfather?" she added eagerly. 

Mr. Long, glad to see Edith's good humor return, 
replied. "Some hundred odd years ago, Paul Revere 
made his famous ride over this road; many small skirm- 
ishes were fought here, and last, but not least, this road 
was included in one of the most important secrets of 
this town, for not far from here is a tremendous rock in 
which is a tunnel where many kegs of powder were hid- 
den during the Revolutionary War." 

"But. Grandfather," interposed Edith. "How do 
you know where the powder was kept? You were n't 
alive in the Revolution." 

"Because my grandfather, who was a colonel then, 
told my father, and he told me." answered Mr. Long. 
"And now." he concluded, "would you like to go over 
and see the rock where the powder was kept?" 

"I should think so!" replied Edith; "and I take back 
all I said about this being a stupid road." 



{The Road of the Loving Heart) 

Far away on a little island, unimportant and remote 
from civilization, runs such a road as is not to be seen 
in the most powerful countries of the world. 

Once, a Scotchman came to this island, near to death 
and wishing, because of the favorable climate, to spend 
his last days there. He bought a plantation and settled 
down quietly, but soon he became interested in the 
affairs of the natives. The two sides could not agree, 
and there was continual strife. It was this exile from 
his own land who helped them, advised them, and gave 
them his love, until, when warfare had ceased, both 
sides called him their friend. 

But even when war had ceased, many chieftains were 
still in prison because of their political views. This 
Scotchman made it his work to feed them, and he worked 
long and patiently at his task. He saved the prisoners 
from death, visited them, comforted them, and pleaded 
for them, until at last they were released. 

Now this man. whom the natives called Tusitala 
(Teller of Tales), had long wanted a certain road built. 
And the gratitude of these chieftains for what he had 
done for them was such that in spite of age, sickness, 
heat, and hundreds of other obstacles, they set them- 
selves to building this road. In time it was finished, 
and they called it ' The Road of The Loving Heart.' as a 
present, that might endure forever. 

Soon after, the Scotchman died, to be mourned sin- 
cerely by many people, but no one mourned him more 
sincerely than did these humble natives. 

The world knows this man, whom the natives called 
Tusitala, as Robert Louis Stevenson, and it is because 
"the day was no longer than his kindness" that the 
story of the Road of the Loving Heart can be told. 


.A. list of tliose whose work would have been used had space 
permitted : 



David D. Lloyd 
Oliver Gale 
Miriam Grosvenor 
Bert Shapiro 
Minnie Pfcferberg 
Silvia A . 

Caroline Everett 

Constance M. 


Barbara Irish 
Helen E. Waitc 
Birkbeck Wilsoyi 
Margaret J. 

Chiyo Hirose 
Catharine Stone 
Francis S. 

Elizabeth E. Clarke 
Elizabeth Kingsbury 
Catherine Parmenter 

Frances Oler 
Worlheti Bradley 
Dorothy C. Miller 
Murl Daniels 
habelle Haskell 
Kathleen Murray 
Pomlhy Miner 

Katharine McAfee 
Eilmt Bahr 
Alan V. McGee 
Jane Ashcraft 
Edith O'D. Hunter 

Richard Barrow 
Florence Finch 
Peggy Cook 
Mary Hulse 
Mary Vernia 
Josephine Rothchild 
Gcraldine Goodwin 
Eleanor Schlytter 
Alice L. Sterling 
Olive Mulford 
Willard Laning. Jr. 
Dorothy R. Burnett 



Mack prang 
Mollic L. Craig 
John J. Daniel 
Rudolph Cook 
Fanita Laurie 
Malvina Holcombe 
Mary L. Mayo 
Ernest O. Knoch 
Charlotte Reynolds 
Mis7ton Rittenhouse 

Karla Henrich 
Hester Laning 
.Alan Atkins 
Edith Burr 
Gladys Lull 


\Vm. C. Hanna 
Helen F. Bloomer 
Helen Bcr,fman 
Eleanor M. Rugh 
Editha Wright 

Constance ^L 

Jeanne L. Jaquith 
Dorothy L Dixon 
May Wright 
Evelyn L. Everitt 
Margaret P. 

William M. Hiesttr 
Ruth Wilkinson 
Barbara Sirnison 
Walter Hurley 

Betty Fulton 
Eleanor F. Scott 
Margaret McCulloh 
Carol Kaufman 
Edith Hargrave 
Ruth Clevenger 
Ruth Dennis 
Helen Simonson 
Helen L. MacLeod 
Virginia H. 

Veronica Invin 
Elizabeth Boyle 
Theodore Hall. Jr. 
Cornelia Jones 
Helen S.Johnson 
Lucille Duff 
Helen Coyne 

Benjamin V. 
White, Jr. 
Ruth H. Dimick 
Betty Hobart 
Winifred Blackwell 



A list of those whose contributions were deserving of high 


Louise Hullihen 
Martha E. Smith 
Nelson B. Pendleton 
Frances S. Holliday 
Eleanor Jones 
Mildred Ridley 
Frances Pierson 
Ah'se V. Evans 
Emily Hall 
Mar>' Elmer 


Frank L. Heaton 
Elizabeth Barton 
Meyer Lisbanoff 
S. E. Briggs 
Mar>' R. Eaton 
Julia F. Doughty 
Josephine Rankin 
G Wynne M. Dressei 
Edward D. Gushing 
Willard Anderson 

Fran ken field 
Margaret Durick 

Allen S. Weller 
Elizabeth Wilcox 
Madeleine Gin-an 
Edward B. Black 
Charline Raub 
Catharine M. 

Jessica L. Megaw 
Elizabeth Brainerd 
Janet B. McAfee 
Carolina McCall 
Anne L. New 
Laura D. Petersen 
Mary E. E^ves 
Hope Sterling 
Frederick S. Pearson 
Ellen A. Frank 
William Aydelotte 
Emily Kingsbury 
Julia Van der \'eer 
Barbara Maniere 
Winifred Rollins 
Jane E. Clover 

Florence Frear 
Alice L. McCaul 
Merrill Jones 
Josephine Burras 
M arian H . Stan wood 
Emma M. McCuUy 


Frances-Lee Pumell 
\'ictoria Potter 
Julia Polk 

Beatrice Vogt 

Shirley Behr 
Francis H. 

Kate Reynolds 
Shirley Strouse 

Kathleen Von 

Albert Reader 
Nancy Benoist 

Beatrice Parvin 
Grace Griffin 
Florence Fowler 

Amy Tatro 
Richard G. 

Hill. Jr. 
Patricia E. 

Marjorie L 




Mary B.C lax ton 

Gladys Morton 

Theron W. 

Stanley Saxton 
Eunice Cooke 
Sallie McKenzie 
Barbara F. Smith 
E. K. Graves 
Jonathan H. Niles 
John Curtis 
Carohne M. Ashton 
Katherine C. 

Kathleen Haste 
Nancy S. Morgan 
Rhea Levy 
Meryl Stateler 
Rose C. 

Helen Steele 
Helen MacGregor 
Mary- H. Bush 
\'irginia Mitchell 
Katharine Hubbard 
Robert B. Bell 
Seymour Offutt 
Katherine Burton 
James C. Perkins, 

Muriel M. Craig 
Dorothy Gray 
Helen C. Furer 
Louise Hudson 
Sylvia C-ook 
Frances E. Duncan 
Evelyn Paxton 
Hugh W. Watson 
Marger>' E. 

Endicott Hanson 
Susan McBn>^de 
Gwendolyn Randall 
Frances G. Crossiey 
Margaret Maugis 
Rachel Hammond 


Cecily B. Fox 
Anne Wyman 
\'irginia H. Miley 
Caroline E. 
He mm way 


R. Thulin 
Marion Kilbourn 
Philip Reynolds 
Eugencia Leigh 
Dorothy M. Jones 
Alexander B. 

Jocelyn Crane 
Alice R. Loyall 
Robert C. Osborne, 

Sarah H. Murray 
Adele S. Weiler 
Berenice L. Lasher 


The St. Nicholas League is an organization of 
the readers of the St. Nicholas Magazine. 

The League motto is "Live to learn and learn to 

The League emblem is the "Stars and Stripes." 

The League membership button bears the 
League name and emblem. 

The St. Nicholas League organized in Novem- 
ber, 1899, became immediately popular with earnest 
and enlightened young folks, and is now widely rec- 
ognized as one of the great artistic educational 
factors in the life of American boys and girls. 

The St. Nicholas League awards gold and silver 
badges each month for the best original poems, 
stories, drawings, photographs, puzzles, and puzzle 


Competition No. 258 will close June 3. All roii- 
tributions intended for it must be mailed on or 
before that date. Prize announcements will be 
made and the selected contributions published in 
St. Nicholas for September. Badges sent one 
month later. 

Verse. To contain not more than twentv-four 
lines. Subject, "The Harvest" or "Harvest Time." 

Prose. Essay or stor>' of not more than three 
hundred words. Subject, "A Proud Moment." 

Photograph. Any size, mounted or unmounted; 
no blue prints or negatives. Young photographers 
need not print and develop their pictures them- 
selves. Subject, "At the Comer." 

Drawing. India ink, very black writing-ink, or 
wash. Subject, "A Familiar Object" or "A Head- 
ing for September." 

Puzzle. Must be accompanied by answer in full. 

Puzzle Answers. Best and neatest complete set 
of answers to puzzles in this issue of St. Nicholas. 
Must be addressed to The Riddle-box. 

No unused contribution can be returned unless it 
is accompanied by a sclf-addrcssed and stamped en- 
velop of proper size to hold the manuscript or picture. 


Any reader of St. Nicholas, whether a subscriber 
or not, is entitled to League membership, and upon 
application a League badge and leaflet will be sent 
free. No League member who has reached the age 
of eighteen years may compete. 

Every contribution, of whatever kind, must bear 
the name, age, and address of the sender and 
be indorsed as "original" by parent, teacher, or 
guardian, who must be convinced beyond 
doubt — and must state in writing — that the 
contribution is not copied, but wholly the work 
and idea of the sender. 

If prose, the number of words should also be added. 
These notes must not be on a separate sheet, but on 
the cotitrihution itself — if manuscript, on the upper 
margin; if a picture, on the margin or back. Write 
in ink on one side of the paper only. A contributor 
may send but one contribution a month — not one of 
each kind, but one only; this, however, does not in- 
clude "competitions" in the advertising pages or 
"Answ^ers to Puzzles." 

Address: The St. Nicholas League, 
The Century Co. 
353 Fourth .Avenue, New York. 


Bayonne. N. J. 
Dear St. Nicholas: When I was reading your Jan- 
uary number the thing that interested me most was the 
play "I '11 Try." I showed it to my teacher who liked 
it as much as I did. We decided to give it at promotion 
time in honor of the graduating class. 

It was hard work tor us to get it up. for we only have 
one session of school, and the school building has no 
auditorium, .\lmost everybody in our class was in it, 
from the largest girl, who was Mrs. Benedict, to the 
smallest, who was Tke Article. I was Caroline. 

Nobody was satisfied to have her part wTitten out — 
each one must have St. Now. a number are 
your readers. 

We could not have elaborate costumes, but we did the 
best we could. The Fairy Patience wore a white dress, 
which she had. a crown, and a wand. Queen Grammar 
borrowed a costume, while King English just wore a 
crown. The parts of speech just had placards. 

The day it was given we had a chorus first, then the 
play. It seemed as if everybody was suited to her part. 
The mothers were invited, and a number were there. 
It was a great success and everybody wanted us to 
repeat it. There was another chorus afterward, and 
that ended the program. 

Our new teacher wants us to give another St. Nich- 
olas play. 

Thanking you for the happy hours you have given me. 
Yours affectionateh'. 

Mary C. Pope (age id. 

S.\N Fr.\.n'Cisco, Cal. 
Dear St. Nicholas: I have seen the butterfiy-tree at 
Pacific Grove which was described in the November 
number of St. Nichol.^s. 

Last summer I was in Truckee. One day. thousands 
and thousands of orange-brown butterflies, with dark 
markings, flew over the town. They flew from the 
other side of the mountain, through the woods, over 
the river, and toward Lake Tahoe. Sometimes some 
rested on trees and houses for a few minutes and then 
went on. They spread out for over a mile and were 
still flying when the sun went down. 
Your devoted reader, 

Martha Mottram (age 8). 


De.\r St. Nicholas: Every month I wait impatiently 
for my welcome friend, St. Nicholas! The stories 1 
enjoy and have enjoyed most are "The Crimson Patch." 
"The Luck of Denewood." "The Dragon's Secret." and 
all the short stories and poems. My little sister, who is 
five years old. likes to hear the things for ver>' little folk. 
Whenever St. Nicholas arrives. Constance (for that is 
her name) runs up and says. "Gladys! the Nicky 's here! 
The Nicky 's here!" just as if she understood all the 
stories and all that the wonderful magazine contains. 

I have taken you for one year and this is the second. 
I can hardly wait for the next number to come. Even 
my grandmother and mother enjoy it with me. 
Yours lovingly, 

Gladys Polowetski (age 12). 

Evanston, III. 
Dear St. Nicholas: I have taken you for only a little 
over a year, but it seems to have been always. I don't 
know how I got along without you before I got you. 
I love your St. Nicholas Le.\cue and sometimes I 

try for it. I think the people that draw for it are won- 
ders. When I try to draw with ink, it splotches and 
blotches so that I have to give it up. 

I have a darling little brown dog and a parrot. The 
parrot says such funny things sometimes! He makes 
us all laugh very hard and joins in as heartily as any of 
us. He has a yellow head, that cocks and ruffles, and 
red tips on the wings and a tail of all kinds of colors. 
He talks just like a human being and not in that crazy 
way in which most parrots screech. 

Once I found myself in a picture in St. 
It was with my sister and cousins at Uncle Charlie's, 
when General Pershing was there. General Pershing 
is about the finest, bravest, kindest man I ever saw. 

I have had ever so many pleasant times reading St. 
Nicholas, and I like it better than any magazine I 
have ever had. 

Your loving reader, 

Marg-aret D.^wes. 

ToKio. Jap.^x. 
Dear St. Nicholas: I have taken you for two years. 
You are a dandy! I always hurry to see you when you 
come from far-off .-America to me here in Japan. 

We spend our summers in Karuizawa. Japan. It is a 
fine place for summer sports. We play tennis, basket- 
ball and baseball, and take walks. Karuizawa is sur- 
rounded on all sides by mountains, and it used to be a 
crater hundreds of thousands of years ago. It is a 
town of about 1500 inhabitants, mostly Japanese. 

Asama. one of the greatest active volcanoes in Ja- 
pan, has recently erupted. This volcano is about fif- 
teen miles away from Karuizawa. 

Sincerely yours. 
Charles Reifsnider, Jr. (.\ge 14). 

P.\RIS, Fr.ance. 
Dear St. Nichol..^s: .Although you receive letters from 
many distant parts of the world. I have lately seen few 
from Paris. You have been a member of the family 
before any of the children could read, and Father used 
to read "For \'ery Little Folk" to us. 

Paris is a wonderful city, but old-fashioned in many 
respects. They even have gas-lamps in the main 

The other day I climbed to the top of the -Arc de 
Triomphe. By the time we were half-way up, our ardor 
started to cool. It seemed as if that dark, winding stair- 
way would never end. At last we reached the top. and 
expected to see light. But we had to cross a space, and 
climb another flight! But the view from the top was 
well worth the climb. Spread out below us was the 
Etoile, that is. the Star, with about sixteen roads and 
avenues branching out from the arch like the spokes 
of a wheel. 

Your loving friend. 

-Alfred Tree (age 13). 

There is a time when the birds sing gaily. 
When flowers bloom and blossom daily. 
When children laugh, and sing, and shout. 
Who can find the secret out? 
When is this time, when all things are merry? 

When children arc glad and ga>? 
Young women go 'round with cheeks like a cherry; 

For this is the month of May. 

Marguerite Boies (.\ce 10). 



Cross-Word Enigma. Umbrella. li. Penny. 12. Pensive. 13. Pentateuch. 14. Pennyroyal. 

Numerical Enigma. "Where the Bible forms public opin- i5. Penetrate, 

ion. a nation must be free." Rh^-med Word-Squares, i. Mole. 2. Opal. 3. Lamb. 4. 

Additions. Monroe, i. M-ice. 2. O-pal. 3. N-eat. 4. ^'^^^ . . . . , _ j , ,■ ,, 

R-ill 5. O-pen 6. E-den. ^ Literary Acrostic. Initials. Romeo and Juliet. From 

Pd.x,.". A^a^c-T-ir- ir.,^f^r n^^^^ ^A^. T TT .. -, I to 19, The Merchant of Venice; 20 to 29. Coriolanus: 30 

rRI^L\L .acrostic. h-aster. Cross-words; I. h-ggs. 2. ^„ ^„ -ri,., t...—,^ ^» .^ *^ ,- l-:«.^ t ^..^ .0*^ -a r^. ™kJ;^.^ 

Arts 1 Soan A Time 5 Frhn fi Rent to 39, The Tempest; 40 to 47. Lear ; 48 to s6. Cymbeline. 

Arts. 3. soap. 4. lime. 5. t,cno. C- Rent Cross-words: 1. Right. 2. Ocean. 3. Mulch. 4. Epics. S- 

Pictured Poems. Longfellow, i. The Old Clock on the Ovate. 6. After. 7. Noisy. 8. Drake. 9. Joint. 10. Uncle. 

Stairs. 2. The .Arrow and the Song. 3. The Lighthouse. 4. ,, Lenion i' Inlet 13 Ember 14 Theme 

The Phantom Ship. s. The Two Angels 6. The Fiftieth King's Move Puzzle. Robin, 73-65-64-74-66. Oriole, 75-67- 

BirthdayofAgassiz. 7. Giotto s Tower. 8. The Harvest Moon. 57-48-40-30. Sparrow. 39-38-46-56-55-47-37. Crow, 28-19-11-1. 

9. 1 he Broken uar. Canary. 10-2-12-20-29-21. Finch, 22-32-24-14-4. Grosbeak. 3- 

Ch.4R.4De. Rob-inn-hood. Robin Hood. :3-5-6-7-i5. 25-17. Pheasant, 8-9-18-27-35-34-42-33. Eagle. 

Some Curious Pens. i. Pension. 2. Penitentiary-. 3. 23-31-41-51-50. Hawk. 49-59-58-68. Vulture. 76-77-69-60-70- 

Pennant or pennon. 4. Penalty. 5. Pennsylvania. 6. Peni- 78-79. Pigeon, 80-71-81-72-63-62. Woodpecker. 61-53-43-52. 

tent. 7. Pentecost. 8. Penguin. 9. Pendulum. 10. Penur>'. 44-54-45-36-26-16. 

To Our Puzzlers: Answers, to be acknowledged in the magazine, must be mailed not later than June 3. and should be addressed 
to St. Nicholas Riddle-box. care of The Century Co., 353 Fourth .Avenue, New York City. N. Y. 

Solvers wishing to compete for prizes must give answers in full, following the plan of those printed above. 

Answers to all the Puzzles in the February Number were duly received from Dorothy Donaldson — Marion C. Pickard — 
John F. Davis — Jo L. Keener. Jr. — Dorothy Patton — Kemper Hall Chapter — \'irginia Ball — Margaret E. Teall — St. Anna's Girls — 
Marion A. Everest — Bernard Le Frois — " Allil and Adi " — No name. Westville — Ruth T. Smith — William Pratt — Charlotte R. 
Cabell — H. Spencer and Henry Dormitzer — -Allen T. Gifford — Helen .A. Moulton. 

Answers to Puzzles in the February Number were duly received from Katharine Jones. 7 — Ruth M. Willis, 7 — Elizabeth 
Jacobus, 7 — Hope Robertson, 7 — Gwenfread E. Allen, 7 — Bernard Kohn, 7 — Margaret Gorton. 6 — Frances DuBarry, 6 — Jean 
and John Foster. 5 — Edith H. Benjamin, 5 — R. and E. "Thulin, s — Nina S. Skidmore. s — Bettina Booth, 4 — Eleanor Thomas. 4 — 
Isabel Scheuber. 3 — Serena Davidson, 3 — Hazel Barbour, 3 — H. Steele, 2 — H. A. R. Doyle. 2 — H. M. Bennett, 2 — M. Burden, 2 — R. 
Williams. 2 — E. Tollefson. 2. 

One Answer: C. M.— J. H.— B. A.— F. H. R.— M. A. N.— H. B.— E. H. A.— R. M.— K. McE.— R. S.— E. W.— H. De S. L.— 
L. B.— R. J.— M. C.— M. F.— R. N.— K. H.— A. H.— 0. B.— M. R.— P. G.— R. W.— M. S.— B. B.— E. A. B.— M. W. C— C. C. 
— C. O.— P. S.— C. V. J.— I. E. H.— A. S. M.— A. R. M. Jr.— F. W. 

DOUBLE ZIGZAG A small branch. 6. Within. 7. A useful mineral. 8. 

{Gold Badge, St. Nicholas League Competition) Among. Dorothy wood (age 12), League Member. 

I . . 3 Cross-words: i. A kind of soil. 2. A ^ RIDDLE 

. * o . noisy brawl. 3. Small insects. 4. The sur- n i \t i j 

J, ' , r. -J . T- .. , One half of a word IS ps 

. o * , name of an ex-President. 5. To make ^ ... , - , - .7 ., 

i .. .i^o -uA lu One third of a word is es 

o . . * eyes at. 6. A Spanish-American laborer. 7. /-^ ■ .1, c j 

J, ' . o . .. r ... One sixth of a word IS r 

. o * . Twenty quires. 8. An author of metrical ., 1, . ■ .v. j v 1 -> 

a, '.^. r. ,. t ■ 1 n . Now what IS the word, if you please? 

* o . compositions. 9. Parts of circles. 10. Part 

* o of an egg. Virginia koeppen (age 13). /.ea^iic Memicc. 

. * o . When these words have been rightly J^J^^ OBELISK 

. o * . guessed and placed as shown in the diagram (^;^,,,, /^^^^^^ g^ Nicholas Le.ague Competition) 

4 . . 2 the zigzags Irom i to 2 and from 3 to 4 will ^ ^^^ ^ , t>-jji u v 

^ ,. <z . .- ., IT .. , C-. . Cross-words: i. In Riddle-box. 2. A 

each name a fine city ot the United States. a j ci u . 

■' , , ... pronoun. 3. A defile between mountains. 

LYDI.A A. cutler (age IS • T J- . A . ,^ /I -T- 

** ' 4. Indigent. 5. A great country. 6. To 

waste time in idleness. 7. Harshness. 8. 

ARITHMETICAL PUZZLE ^„ I„^i^„ ^^,^^p„„ ^ j^ p^^j^ „^ j^^^l^^ 

When Mary was asked how old her dog was. she as with the elbow. 10. A simpleton. 11. 

replied, "Tippy is one third of my age. Three years Weird. 12. To take awav by violence or 

ago he was one sixth of my age, and five years hence by stealth. 13. To collect and come to 

he will be one half of my age." How old was Mary order, as troops dispersed. 14. A sacred 

and how old was Tippy? structure. 15. One who practices the black 

KINGSLEY KAHLER (age ii). League Member. art, or magic. 

When these words have been righth' 

DOUBLE ACROSTIC guessed, and placed as shown in the dia- 

My primals and m>' finals each name a fiower. gram, two of the rows of letters, reading 

Cross-words (of equal length): i. Injury. 2. A upward, will spell two popular names. 

feminine name. 3. A fruit. 4. A common prefix. 5. alice sherbltrne (age 15). 





In this enigma the words are pictured instead of 
described. The answer, consisting of thirty-five let- 
ters, is a quotation from Robert Browning. 


My first gives orders which all must heed", 
My last is a weight which is used for feed; 
My irhole is a wonderful city indeed. 

ELiz.\BETH MOLLER (age ii). League Member. 


The problem is to change one given word to an- 
other by altering one letter at a time, each alteration 
making a new word, the number of letters being always 
the same and the letters always in the same order. 
Example: Change wood to coal in three moves. 
.An'swer: wood, wool. cool. coal. 

I . Change rake to dirt in five moves. 

J. Change dirt to cart in two moves. 

J. Change cart to dump in four moves. 

jewette m.\y SCOTT (age ii), League Member. 


Yam halls keam bet drowl neaw. 
Gledon nus dan verils wed. 
Noyme. dentim ni het kys, 
Halls het sharte wen grentsam yub. 
.\dele goodm.\n (age lo). League Member. 


(Silver Badge, St. Nichol.\s Le.\gve Competition) 
Ex.\i\iPLE: Triply behead and triply curtail adver- 
saries, and leave a number. Answers opp-one-nts. 

1. Triply behead and triply curtail easily affected, and 
leave to perch. 

2. Triply behead and triply curtail fading, and leave 
a pronoun. 

3. Triply behead and triply curtail unprejudiced, and 
leave acquired dexterity. 

4. Triply behead and triply curtail derisively and 
leave relati%'es. 

5. Triply behead and triply curtail threatening, and 
leave termination. 

6. Triply behead and triply curtail arrogant, and 
leave the full amount. 

7. Triply behead and triply curtail a comrade, and 
leave a kitchen utensil. 

8. Triply behead and triply curtail to break into, and 
leave to be mistaken. 

9. Triply behead and triply curtail benefit, and leave 
an emmet. 

10. Triply behead and triply curtail to make known 
by formal announcement, and leave a measure of length. 

11. Triply behead and triply curtail grudginglj- per- 
mitted, and leave epoch. • 

When these words have been correctly guessed, be- 
headed and curtailed, the initials of the eleven three- 
letter words remaining will spell the surname of a famous 










































































































































Begin at a certain square and move to an adjoining 
square (as in the king's move in chess) until each square 
has been entered once. When the moves have been 
correctly made, the name of a writer and three stories 
by this writer may be spelled out. The path from one 
letter to another is continuous. 

SL'SAN E. L\'MAN (age 14), League Member. 

TBS iiuafFolu> PBEsa 


* * j^ 




JUNE, 1921 

Copyright, 1921, by The Centubt Co. All rights reserved. 

No 8 



World's Champion Tennis Player 

The American amateur athlete is above all else a 
clean sportsman. It is one of his characteristics 
and the underl^-ihg principle of our scholastic and 
intercollegiate athletic system. Good sportsman- 
ship is also inherent in .\merican manhood. 

Now this whole question of good and bad sports- 
manship is essential. A nation whose men have 
been trained to the practices of honest\'. generos- 
ity, and fair play is bound to have a policy of 
broad-minded liberalitj- in all its international 
dealings. The opposite is likewise true. It has 
been found that following the doctrine of "Might 
is Right" in sport results in gi\'ing an entire people 
the same point of \'iew. 

There is just this difference betw^een amateur 
and professional sport: the former insists upon 
honesty, generosity-, and fair play among its fol- 
lowers; but although there is a desire to maintain 
an equally high standard in professional athletics, 
it has been found that, when money is a consid- 
eration, fair play is apt to make a hast>' exit from 
the scene. For this reason, the games of golf and 
tennis grip their followers in such a manner that 
all are loyal to the sport itself and to all the high 
standards sportsmanship signifies. (Can we say 
the same of organized baseball?) Indeed, it is the 
inherent honesty of these two games that abo\-e 
all else grips their players and holds them with a 
steadfastness that the highest-salaried stars of 
the diamond rarely, if ever, feel. 

I am a tennis player. At least, for >ears I ha\e 
stri\en to be one. When I was fourteen I was 

fully convinced of this and freely admitted it. As 
the years passed and my career became spotted 
with many defeats, my con\'iction was shaken, 
but hope grew ever stronger within me. Now I 
know how far I was at that time from being a 
tennis pla^'er. One does not always realize, when 
quite young, that there is more to the game than 
winning and losing, than in playing strokes well 
and even brilliantly. That high sense of sports- 
manship inherent to the game — its most out- 
standing feature — is a needed asset in tennis if one 
is either to enjoy it or to go far. 

Tennis always held an appeal for me when I 
was a boy. It seemed to reflect the glamor of ro- 
mance in the spirit of sportsmanship that was ever 
present on the courts and the genial good fellow- 
ship that existed among its players. "Gee!" I 
used to say to myself, "these chaps must be regu- 
lar fellows. I wish I knew them all." 

Time went on, and with the passage of the years 
and the discipline of innumerable defeats and 
ignominious disasters, I gradually attained a skill 
that brought me within that select circle of my 
boyhood dreams — the real tennis players of 
America. I then began to play in \'arious tourna- 
ments here and there and to meet, both on and oflf 
the courts, the men who had been the heroes of my 
boyhood days: Beals C. Wright, William A. 
Larned. Holcomb Ward, \\'illiam J. Clothier, R. 
Norris Williams, 2d, and Maurice E. McLoughlin. 
.'\lthough the latter two were more nearly m\- own 
age and at the top, I had to be content to be the 





leading member of the species dub. It seemed 
queer to me, after I knew them as Beals, and Billy, 
and Holcomb, and Dick, and Maur>', to recall all 
that these older stars meant to me in my boy- 
hood. As a matter of fact, most of our boyish 

rhotograph by Kdwin L<vi, k 


ideals as to idols are shattered when one meets 
them face to face, but this was not so with mine, 
for in these men, who represented the leading 
types of tennis experts, I found tliat same honesty, 
generosil)', and fair play that 1 had alwa\s wor- 
shipped as a boy. In short, the>' were true 
American sportsmen. 

lb it the nieii wiio in.ike the game, or the game 

that makes the men? In my own opinion, it is the 
combination of the two that has placed tennis 
where it is to-day. What a strange contrast it 
oiYers to most other sports! Take the matter of 
officials. There is no paid umpire to render deci- 
sions. In fact, the men who act as umpires and 
linesmen in the biggest tournaments are there onlj- 
to relie\e the contestants themseUes from the 
strain of watching the ball. Their purpose is not 
to enforce law and order. And the unwritten 
code of the game is that, in case of doubt on any 
decision, you must give your opponent the benefit 
of that doubt by yielding him the point. This 
quaiit>' is so ingrained in tennis players that should 
one enter the field who does not hold to this gen- 
erous attitude, he must either adopt it very 
quickly or find his position so insecure and un- 
comfortable that he retires from the contest. 

I recall a certain youngster from the eastern 
section of the United States, who, unfortunately, 
was the perfect example of all that was undesir- 
able in this respect. A poor loser, a boastful 
winner, a wild, high-stepping, unreliable compet- 
itor, yet a great player at that. In his first sea- 
son as a tournament pla>er, he gained a prominent 
position not only as a competitor, but as to repu- 
tation as well. The latter was b\- no means to be 
en\ied. The following season he began playing 
along the same lines — tactics not'to be permitted. 
Thus he quickly found it advisable to retire from 
the sport. Now, after fi\e >ears ha\e passed, he 
is forgotten, his name ne\er referred to. He has 
gone to the place where all poor go — 
the discard. • 

Let me, for the moment, turn to more pleasing 
examples to show jou to what t>pe of men tennis 
calls, the world o\er. 

It is a law of the game of tennis that the word 
of a linesman or umpire is final : it cannot be ques- 
tioned. Their decisions end the matter. Conse- 
quently, there has grown up a fine, clean spirit of 
sportsmanship, an unwritten law, to the effect 
that no matter how flagrant the error ma>- be on 
the part of one of these officials, if it be against 
\'ou, no thought of questioning it may arise. It 's 
a law of the game nexer to take anything that is 
not due you. This unwritten code transcends the 
written one to such an extent that when one prof- 
its by a mistake on the part of an otificial he takts 
the law into his own hands and gives justice to his 
opponent. Naturally, this demands a rare cour- 
age, for you are seemingly discourteous to the 
umpire or linesman, as the case nia>- be, yet only 
by so doing can >ou hold your self-respect. It is 
the recognized method of returning to your op- 
ponent that which is justly his due. 

Let me explain b>' citing several historic inci- 
tlenls. Sonic >ears ago, in a f.iMKjiis L1a\is Cu)! 




match in which England \\as pitted against 
Australasia, those two great sportsmen and won- 
derful exponents of tennis, J. C. Parke, of Eng- 
land, and Norman E. Brookes, of Australia, were 
fighting out a match that would prove the turn- 
ing-point of the 
tie. Parke was at 
his best, an occa- 
sion when he was 
playing superbly'. 
It seemed apparent 
to all that he had 
Brookes beaten. 
He was leading 
two sets to one 
and match point 
for the third. Then 
it was that he 
drove Brookes far 
out of court with 
a deep drive, and 
immediately fol - 
lowed in to the net. 
Brookes lobbed, 
but he lobbed 
short. It meant 
the match for Eng- 
land if Parke won 
the point; quite 
possibly, it meant 
the Davis Cup as 
well. Parke swunj; 
hard into the ball 
and drove it 
through Brookes's 
court for a kill. 
But his racket, fol- 
lowing through in a long downward flight, touched 
the net so ven.' slightly that none of the officials 
saw it. 

"Game, set, match, Parke!" called the umpire. 
Brookes came forward, smiling, hand extended 
in congratulation. Parke remained where he had 
hit the ball, his face turned to the umpire. 
"Mr. Umpire," he said, "I hit the net." 
"You are sure, Mr. Parke?" came the reply. 
"Quite," he answered. 

Brookes stood silent, still ready with congratu- 

"The ]ioint is Mr. Brookes's. Deuce!" called 
the umpire. 

Play recommenced. Parke lost that game. 
Brookes, quick to seize his last chance, could not 
be stopped. The match, and ultimately the cov- 
eted Da\is Cup, went to Australia. 

Was it wrong for Parke to speak? That ques- 
tion was rather freely discussed at the time. Ten- 
nis men all know it was not, that Parke lix'ed up 

Pboto by Edwin Levick 


to the traditions of the sport, just as all of us hope 
and trust we shall do when such occasions arise. 

Let me further illustrate this spirit of fair play 
by an incident that occurred at the Merion 
Cricket Club in 1914, during the intercollegiate 

That was the >-ear when Norman E. Brookes 
and Anthony F. Wilding, notwithstanding their 
winning of the Davis Cup for Australasia, had 
fallen before the miraculous tennis of Maurice 
Evans McLoughlin. "Red Mac" or "The Cali- 
fornia Comet," as he was called, was conceded to 
be the world's premier player when, like a bolt 
from a clear sky, R. Norris \\"illiams, 2d, who but 
two short weeks before had gone down to defeat 

Photograph by Edwiu Levick 


before both Brookes and Wilding, actually swept 
McLoughlin off the court in the final round for 
the L'nited States singles championship. 

Then came the intercollegiates. Williams, the 
newly crowned national champion, placing for 
Har\ard, was an entrant, as was George Myers 




Church, of Princeton. These two men were old 
and intimate friends. Fate ordained they should 
meet in the final round of this fixture. The result 
seemed a foregone conclusion. Even.- one ad- 
mitted that Church had not the vestige of a 

Then came the unexpected, to cap the climax 

Fbotonrapb by Edwio Levick 


of this weird season of upsets. Church was at the 
top of his form, a master of all his strokes. Wil- 
liams was stale and careless. Thus Church led at 
two sets to one and three games to four on \\'il- 
liams's service. Church then went to a 5-3 lead 
in games and stood 30-40 on points when, during 
a close rally, one of Williams's shots touched the 
net and fell good on Church's court. .At least, so 
it seemed to all. Mr. A. L. Hoskins. of Philadel- 
phia, was in the umpire's chair and immediately 
ruled the hall good. That made the score deuce 
in points. But Williams immediately spoke up. 
"Mr. Hoskins, m>' shot went through the net," 
he said, pointing to a hole at that point. 

The latter turned to Church and asked him 
what he thought. Now, Church had not seen. 
He had been running, and the whole incident was 
doubtful in his mind. But he answered immedi- 
ately, "\\ illiams's shot was quite good. It went 
o\er the net." 

Thus stood two pla\ers, the jjoint in doubt 
i|uite possibh- meaning the championship. It 
certainly meant it to Church, and to Williams it 
meant another chance. Yet both agreed that the 
point belonged to the other, because there was an 
element of doubt in the mind of each regarding it. 
Here was a case of the cleanest kind of sportsman- 
ship that 1 ha\e e\er known. 

To mete justice to both of them alter that inci- 
dent was impossible, for both could not win. As 
it turned out, Mr. Hoskins ruled the point a "let," 
.ind called it to be played over again. Williams 
lost it, and a moment later, ( ieorge Myers Church 
gained the intercollegiate title and a national 
champion had lost it to him. 

This final round of the intercollegiate champion- 
ship seems destined for unusual displays of both 
sportsmanship and temperament. Not so many 
\ears ago a I'niversitx' of Penns>l\ania player 
was pitted against a famous young collegian from 
California in the finals. A team-mate of the latter 
was one of the linesmen selected for the match. 1 
happened to be seated behind him. so 1 had a 
clear view of the particular line he was judging. 
Like all those splendid fellows from California, he 
was both a fine sportsman and an impartial judge. 
On the other hand, the competitor from his home 
State, while a marvel as a player, was also ver>- 
hot-headed. The personalitx- of his opponent, al- 
so, was certainly upsetting him, for the Pennsyl- 
vanian was one of the craftiest and coolest court 
generals in the countn,-, a man who could worr>' 
any opponent, a regular sphinx. However, the 
Californian was well in the lead, tvvo sets to one, 
five-two in games and match point at 40-30 when 
he drove down the side line along which I was sit- 
ting. The ball stirred up a cloud of chalk, but fell 
outside the line. 

"Out!" called the linesman, his team-mate. 

The crowd, and also the young Californian, 
having seen the chalk dust, believed the ball had 
struck good. Therefore, the spectators gasped. 
But the player lost his head and promptly ex- 
ploded. The strain of the match had proved too 
great. He foolishly believed he had been robbed, 
and raved around the court. When finally induced 
to play, his whole game collapsed. He threw 
away the set. and the match as well, in a brush of 
childish temper, of which he was only too ashamed 
when he grew cooler. 

That was a case of plaving the poor sportsman 
on the part of a man who had hitherto proved 



himst'll to be a good one. Brought on by nerves, 
it cost him the match, the least of his losses. 
There is no doubt that had he accepted the deci- 
sion in a sportsmanlike manner and thus kept his 
temper, he would have won that title with ver>' 
good grace. Moreover, he failed to remember 
that his opponent would not have accepted the 
decision unless he had belie\ed it was correct. 
That is one thing always to be relied upon, for it 
is the spirit of the game. 

Hardly a great match goes by without some in- 
cident that shows the true sportsmanship ot 
tennis players. And these incidents are not os- 
tentatiously paraded. Rather, they are treated 
as a matter of course, as though nothing else was 
ever to be considered. 

During the Da\is Cup matches last year, 
Brookes deliberately gave me a point by hitting a 
ball out because he knew the linesman had made 
an error against me on the pre\ious point. Such 

know that you are glad. Enjoy the battle. If 
>ou win, win with modesty. If >'ou lose, lose gra- 
ciously, without the too frequent excuses of the 
poor loser, or the gloomy countenance of the 
grouch. Remember, when beaten, that a better 

hbtitiigrapb hy Kdwiu Levick 


a conrlition he was unwilling to accept. It was 
not tennis, that was all there was to it, in his mind, 
('■ood sportsmanship on the courts is more than 
merely seeing that justice is done. It is generositx' 
and, I might say, hospitality to your opponent. 
By all means be glad to pla\- him and let him 

i'botograpb by Edwiu Lt;vicii 


player has won. Do not begrudge him his victory, 
but plan to defeat him, in turn, when ne.xt you 
meet. It is this spirit of come-back that character- 
izes a great sportsman. It is the full possession 
of it that endears J. C. Parke and Norman E. 
Brookes to the men they face. 

I was fortunate enough to defeat Parke in the 
championships of England last season. His con- 
gratulations were both hearty and sincere, and 
his expressed wish was that he might play me 
again and do better in the Davis Cup. 

I met Brookes first in the U. S. Championships 
in 1919, and defeated him in four sets. Brookes 
enjoyed the match, although the loser. He set 
out to beat me from that moment. We met again 
last year in the finals of the Davis Cup. This time 
he almost turned the trick, but that "almost" 



has not satisfied liiiii. Always he enjoys pitting 
liis game against mine. Twice more we met — 
Brookes always working (or victory, not with a 
desire to exult, but merely for the joy of outplay- 
ing me, and his appreciation of the high regard in 
which I hold his sportsmanship. He did not suc- 
ceed either time, but I am looking forward with 
keen pleasure to our next meeting, if fate should so 
ordain it occur in the Davis Cup finals again this 
year. I\Iy great ambition, should he overcome 
me, is to pro\e as fine a sportsman as he has been, 
and to sa>-, as he does, "I '11 come back after you." 

A true sportsman really gives of his best at all 
times. He recognizes the debt he owes the public 
that honors him by coming to see him play. For 
that reason, he must give all he has in his matches. 
To shirk in exhibition matches because there is 
nothing at stake is the policy of the quitter, never 
of the sportsman. 

American boys are the finest t>-pe of sportsmen. 
I know many of them with ideals that grown-up 
players may well emulate. It is this inherent 
sense of sportsmanship to which tennis appeals 
and which, in turn, is the cause of tennis becoming 
such an important factor in scholastic athletics. 

Tennis also takes ner\e, and as much as, if not 
more than, any game I know. Let me tell you 
the story of a boy who has gained a high place 
among men b>' \'irtue of the nerx'e he developed 
in tennis. 

In New Jersey, some years ago, a lad who had 
been ill for >'ears made up his mind he would play 
tennis. His trouble was a tubercular hip. His 
ambition seemed hopeless. Ne\-ertheless, he set 
out to realize it. First he submitted to a series of 
serious treatments that finally brought the results 
he was hoping for. Then he began for the first 
time to walk without a limp. Soon he started 
playing tennis. As he knew nothing about the 

game, he made it a point to attend near-by 
tournaments in which fine pla\ers were entered, 
in order to study their style and form. E\ent- 
ually, his progress was rapid and, as a member of 
the team of his city, he went to Philadelphia to 
play. There I met him. Pitted against a young- 
ster more experienced than himself, and one far 
stronger, it was not long before he tired out. 
Then came back the old limp. I was fortunate 
enough to be watching this match. I saw the 
stronger boy slowly gain his advantage and begin 
to press it home, and I recognized the reason for it. 
Suddenly a determined expression came over the 
face of the Jersey boy. Slowly he fought back to 
even terms, and finally he forced his way to 
\-ictory. When that was gained he collapsed from 
sheer exhaustion. 

Not only had he won the match, but, with it, 
by his magnificent exhibition of ner\e and the 
clean sportsmanship he had shown throughout 
the struggle, the respect and admiration of all 
those present. 

W as it all in the boy.'' I 've often asked myself, 
or does some of the credit belong to the game 
which calls forth such sterling qualities? Person- 
ally, I think tennis has quite a little to do with 
all these incidents that I ha\e set down here. It 
seems to me that there is a tradition of sportsman- 
ship about it that one instinctively feels, once he 
begins playing the game. 

It is my sincere belief that tennis is a great 
power for good among the boys of this country, 
for it is not only a game demanding perfect physi- 
cal condition, but a mental keenness, fine ner\e- 
control, and, by no means least, the highest spirit 
of sportsmanship. 

For it is always to be remembered that tennis 
and good sportsmanship ha\e been, are, and will 
be svnon%mous. 





"Just the same, Betty deserves the medal!" 

There was a chorus of protest from most of the 
girls sitting on the bench under the old Lancaster 
Oak and on the wide limb that flung itself out 
parallel with the ground. 

"I don't see how you make that out, Miggsy." 

"No," broke in another, "to-day Mary Lou did 
every single stunt a little better." 

"But Betty had been up since five studying for 
that awful histon,' exam, and one of Miss Sadler's 
exams would make any one forget how to walk, 
let alone jump." 

"Well, of course / don't care who gets it, since 
the facult\- won't give it to me for my herculean 
labors — " 

There was a laugh at this. Lucile Goodspeed 
was a fair-haired girl who managed to get herself 
into every possible difficulty on the gAmnasium 
floor. She explained it by insisting that she had 
a many-sided nature, and that each side wanted 
to do something diflferent. 

"Oh, of course, Lucile, you 're the only possible 
candidate! Just what was your idea in wander- 
ing across the floor this morning, when we were 

"I am afraid you will never understand." 
Lucile threw a pathetic quiver into her \oice. 
"You see, I came to Lancaster to de\elop origi- 
nality — personality — individuality — " 

"If she has n't been reading the prospectus!" 
struck in Martha Whitehill. "Skip the rest of it 
and go on!" 

"I said you would n't understand! .■\nyhow, I 
came to Lancaster — and what do I find?" She 
struck a tragic pose and nearly knocked little 
Dolly Miller from the oak limb. "Yes — what?" 

"A spider," said Martha, flicking one from 
Lucile's shoulder. 

"I find that I am undone!" 

"You look all right to me," said Martha. 

Lucile paid no attention to these remarks. 
"I have to wear low-heeled shoes, like every one 
else. I have to get up at six-fort\-fi\e, like the 
rest of you — or at least. I get up when the break- 
fast bell rings, like the rest of you. I tie my tie as 
I fall downstairs — like the rest of you. I go to 
class and sit on the same kind of chairs and don't 
know my lessons; I race to the dining-room and 
devour enormous quantities of food — just like 
every one else. But I ha\c now soK^ed the prob- 
lem. 1 will li\e up to the prospectus and develop 
my indi\iduality, my — " 

"Skip that part. How will you do it?" 

"Why, in g\m. Did n't you hear Miss Xacken 
tell me I was the most original marcher she had 
ever seen? But see here, Miggsy, just why are 
you so anxious for Bett>- to take the medal? 
Every one thinks Mar>- Lou will win." 

"I know it. But this is Betty's last year, and 
she 's worked for the Anthony medal ever since 
she was a freshman. She 's been out for basket- 
ball and hockey, faithfulh'. I know Mary Lou 
has set her heart on it, too, but she has another 
year to tr>' for it. I can't help wishing something 
would happen so that Mar^- Lou would lose." 

"I had n't thought of it just that way," said 
Martha. "Can't we drop a hint somehow?" 

"Afraid not," said Miggsy. "They have n't 
been ver>' good friends this year." 

"You might tr\- Rosaria Lucia Maria Tonini's 
stunt," suggested Lucile. 

The older girls laughed, but the \ounger ones 
demanded what Rosaria Etceteras stunt had 

Lucile told the tale. "Rosaria came from 
Ecuador, and her father was president or some- 
thing. She used to get jealous of her friends and 
want r-r-re-venge on her enemies. Even,' one 
knew that year that Gertrude Wynn would win 
the medal, and Rosaria got jealous and rearranged 
things in her own sweet way. First, Gertrude 
could n't find her gym shoes. Of course, every one 
had to ha\'e a pair, and absoluteh- the onh- ones 
she could get belonged to Florence O'Xeill." 

"I '11 never forget Gertrude jumping in those 
number elevens," laughed !\Iartha. 

"That was bad enough," Lucile continued; 
"but Rosaria got hold of the underwaist Gertrude 
wore in g>'m and cut all the buttons down to a 
mere thread!" 

"My word!" gasped Dolly Miller, who was 
English. "What happened?" 

"Xothing, luckily, for Gertrude got to playing 
tag in the dressing-room and pop! off went two 
buttons! She would n't have noticed anything 
even then, but the teacher saw it and made her 
see that they were all on tight. Four of us sewed 
on those buttons, while the audience waited, and 
we sewed Gertrude in to make sure!" 

"There 's the mail-cart," drawled Martha, 
jumping from her perch, "and if I don't get a 
letter from some member of my famil\- to-day, 
I '11 cut them off with a dime." 

"You won't be able to do even that unless your 
allowance comes," called her room-mate, as they 
all followed Martha to the school. 




The old Lancaster Oak was quiet again. 

But it was not deserted. For from the honey- 
suckle arbor, a short distance off, came Mary Lou 
Milford, Bett>' Garfield's rival for the Anthony 
medal. She slowly climbed into the welcoming 
arms of the big oak which had watched and com- 
forted more than fifty years of Lancaster girls. 

The Lancaster Oak whispered and swa\\(l, and 
Mary Lou watched the shifting green and gold 
lights above her. 

"Betty has been working for the medal four 
years, and you 've only worked for three," the old 
oak seemed to say. 

"But I have as much right as she has," Mary 


Mary Lou had n't intended to eavesdrop. She 
had been curled up in the arbor studying her 
Cicero when Lucile's nonsense had attracted her 
attention; and who would n't listen to Lucile? 
Then it had startled her so to hear Miggsy's rea- 
sons for wanting Betty to win that she could n't 
have moved. Dear Miggs\' — if e\er a girl de- 
served to be president of her class, Margaret 
Burton did. But wh\' did Betty have a better 
right to the medal than she did? It was n't a 
question of it being your last year; it was a 
question of who was the best gymnast; and as for 
working for it, Bett>- had n't worked one bit 
harder than she had, she thought resentfulh'. It 
was just a case of the best man winning. Besides, 
her brother had promised her the dearest little 
wrist-watch in New ^'ork if she won the medal. 

Lou thought. "Besides, it was n't right for her 
to room with Marian after she said she 'd room 
with me." 

"So that 's the trouble!" her thoughts made the 
oak say. "You 've kept that vexation warm all 
this time. Seniors are supposed to room with 
seniors, are n't they? Is that why you 're so 
an.\ious to win?" 

"No, I don't think it is," she answered. "May- 
be that is part of it, but I honestly do want that 
medal more than anything else in the world. 
.'\nd something might happen so that I would n't 
ha\e a chance next year. Anyhow, there 's no 
way out. The best one just has to win," then 
she laughed at the thought of Rosaria Lucia's 
plan, "unless — unless I should try lo lose!" 

"Mar>' Lou-oo! Letter for vou-oo!" 




The girls were returning. By the time the\' 
had reached the oak her resoKe had been made, 
and she felt that it must show in her face. Dolly 
Miller threw Mar>' Lou her letter and she noticed 
that it was from her mother; but before she had 
time to read it, Miggsy swept her away to a 
class meeting and she dropped the letter into her 

It was not until she was sitting in her pretty, 
round-necked white dress, waiting for the dinner- 
gong to sound, that she remembered it. The 
letter told of the usual family affairs, the latest 
funny escapade of her little brother. But the 
last page — she felt a lump rise in her throat as 
she read: 

And now, my dear little girl, I rather dread breaking 
some news to you. Vour father finds it necessary to 
spend next year in Southern California, and we may go 
there 'for keeps.' We have talked it all over, and we 


on the lawn; she heard the jokes and comments 
they called back and forth. Then the seniors 
came out from a class meeting and began to pla\- 
"Senior games" — such as "London Bridge" and 
"Go Up and Down the Valley." Oh, how could 
she leave it all! Xo other school would ever be 
like it; no other girls could be like the girls in her 
class. Suddenh' a new thought came to torment 

"If this is m\ last year, too," ;>he said aloud, 
"there 's no reason wh>' I should n't try my hard- 
est for the medal. I can get that much, at any 

The last ten days of school, with the examina- 
tions, the school picnic, the festivities for the 
seniors, seemed ten years to Mary Lou. Some- 
how it seemed worse to ha\e to lea\"e before 
graduation — to leave without the privileges that 
went with graduation; to have to say good-b\' 

before your class and 
have them forget 
\ou; never to ha\e 
the right to wear the 
little Lancaster 
pearl-and-gold pin! 
And Mary Lou's 
usually radiant face 
showed sorrow as a 
pool reflects the 
changes in the sky. 
■'What 's the 
matter with Marx- 
Louise Milford?" 
Miss Trueblood, the 
head of the school, 
asked Miss Xacken. 
"Her room-mate 
sa>s the poor child 
is worr\ing o\ er not 
coming back next 
\ear. I, for one, 
will miss her." 

"What 's this?"de- 
manded .Miss True- 

can see no other way, with the family expenses what 
they are and Bruce in college, than for you to leave 
Lancaster. You may decide to stay out a year and go 
back to graduate. There is a bare possibility — 

Mary Lou laid the letter down, almost in tears. 
Leave Lancaster! She could n't. Come back 
and graduate? AH the girls that really counted 
would be gone. It was n't fair to ask it ! 

The gong sounded, and gulping down the lump 
in her throat, she went down, trying her best to 
seem as gay as the rest of the chattering, prettily 
dressed girls. 

.\fter dinner she flung a scarf around her and 
slipped out to the o-ld oak. She watched the girls 

blood. "\\ h\ don't these youngsters sometimes 
come to me with their troubles? I don't suppose 
Mary Lou e\er heard of scholarships." 

"Is she a good enough student for that?" Miss 
Xacken asked in some surprise. 

"Well, I 11 admit that Mar>' Lou is n't our 
shining scholar. But she has never failed in a 
subject. Besides, she could be one of the leaders 
of the class if she 'd put some of her gynuiastic 
energy into her other work. I should think she 'd 
i.ave a chance for the Porter scholarship." 

"I wish she could," agreed Miss Xacken. 

"Well, then, you go and drop her a hint that she 
apply for one." Miss Trueblood's eyes twinkled. 



Hoping against hope, Mar>- Lou made her 
appHcation for a scholarship. Her father wrote 
that if she was given the scholarship, he could 
arrange to have her stay at Lancaster. If! It 
seemed to Mary Lou that every unprepared recita- 
tion, every school rule broken, rose up before her. 
She remembered how Miss Trueblood had looked 
when the juniors had "borrowed" the ice-cream 
from the sophomore bab>'-part\', and she was sure 
that Miss Trueblood would never rec- 
ommend her. 

At last came the gymnastic e.\hibi- 
tion, with the Anthony medal contest. 
Every girl was fairh- palpitating with 
excitement, for while it was fairK' 
certain that either Mary Lou Milford 
or Betty Garfield would take the medal, 
there were two or three others who 
were almost as good. Besides, there 
were second and third prizes to be won. 

In her dressing-room, Mary Lou bent 
low o\-er the lacing of her high white 
shoes, for she feared that Martha, who 
shared the room, would see that some- 
thing was wrong. In the next room 
she could hear Betty saying excitedK'. 
"Unfasten the cuff of my middy, quick ; 
I can't get my hand through! Now, 
where is that tie?" It was strange 
that Betty should be so ner\ous. 
Then the whistle blew, and the girls 
fell in for the march into the big gym- 
nasium, whose galleries and stage were 
packed with spectators. As she en- 
tered the familiar place, Mary Lou lost 
her ner\ousness. 

She wondered if Betty had. 

They went through the well-known 
marching drill without a mistake; e\en 
Lucile managed to curb her passion for origiiiality. 
Then came the folk-dancing, then the Swedish 
exercises. She wondered who the judges were, 
and looked up to see old Colonel Hillhouse, her 
father's friend, in the seat of honor next to Miss 
Trueblood. She did n't know who the other 
judge was. Then came the Indian clubs and 
dumb-bell drill, and last came the apparatus work. 

This was the event that every Lancaster girl 
loved. It was like a game of follow-nn-leader, as 
the girls swung down the flying rings, jumped, 
vaulted, walked the balance-beams, swung along 
the traveling-boom, turned somersaults over the 
bars, and finished with the swinging jump with 
the ropes. Betty and Mary Lou were leading, 
and one by one the other girls missed in some part 
of the work, or were dropped out for failure to keep 
the proper form. At last, Betty and Mary Lou, 
with two others, were left at the swinging junij). 

Now this was not the most difificult of the feats 
that had been performed, but it showed the finish 
with which the performer worked and was as 
useful as any other in eliminating contestants. 
Grasping the great ropes, up which a short time 
ago they had been climbing, the girls stepped 
back, then ran forward, sliding their hands up 
the ropes and swinging up and o\'er a cord 
stretched in front of them. 


.\gain and again they jumped. Peggy Carter 
failed to make it. Among the girls sitting along 
the sides of the gymnasium, there were audible 
comments, now for Mary Lou, now for Betty. 
Then Mary Lambert missed. 

SuddenU- Betty asked, "How high are we 
jumping now?" 


Bett>-, who was short, had rarely been known 
to jump more than five-feet-five. She watched 
while the cord was put up, then seized the ropes, 
ran forward, and, though she made a perfect 
landing on the mat — the cord was down. 

"Jump again, Betty," said Miss Nacken and 
Mary Lou together, but there was the same result. 

Mary Lou wanted to jump with delight. Then 
she too ad\'anced to the ropes, and swung up and 
up — and brought down the cord. 

"What 's the matter, girls?" said Miss Nacken, 



briskly. "You 've both often jumped higher than 
this. Susy made a mistake; the cord is only 
at five-feet-four now." 

Betty and Mar>' Lou looked at each other. 
Both were quite white. Then Bett>- walked 
quietly to the ropes — and missed. Mar\- Lou did 
the same thing. It seemed to her that e\'er>- one 
in the g>'mnasium was watching her, that every- 
one was whispering something about her. Sud- 
denly Miss Nacken blew her whistle. Her lips 
tightly set. 

"Fall in!" she called, and in a moment the girls, 
some excitedh' talking, some tired and silent 
with the long strain, were in the dressing-rooms. 

Man,- Lou dressed slowly and silently, unwilling 
to go out and hear the congratulations and com- 
miserations of the others. At last the dressing- 
room was quiet. Then there came a knock at 
the door. Betty came in, in her crisp white dress. 
Neither said anything for a moment or two. 

"Miss Nacken 's vexed," Betty said. 

"Is she?" 

"She says nobody ought to have the medal." 

Another pause. "Mar>' Lou," said Betty, 
softly, "why did you do it?" 

"I did n't do anything," said Mar>' Lou, 
defiantly. "Besides, even,' one knows you can 
jump five-feet-four easily." 

"Did you do it on purpose?" Betty asked. 

"Did >ou?" asked Mary Lou. 

Then they both began to laugh, and a moment 
later walked out arm in arm, still laughing. 

The next day was commencement, and from 
the breakfast given by the juniors to the seniors, 
all through the morning, Mar>' Lou had no time 
to think. At last, after Mary Lou, armed with 
her long white staff, had fluttered ever>-where, it 
seemed to her, ushering, she dropped into her 
seat with the other juniors. Finally, the program 
began and proceeded to the real business of the 
da>' — the gi\ing of the diplomas, the awarding of 
the prizes. The Anthony medal was always kept 
until the last. 

Colonel Hillhouse arose. 

"It is my great pleasure," he began with tanta- 
lizing slowness, "to award the .-Xnthony medal, 
which I am assured is the honor most prized b>- 
Lancaster girls. Yesterday, most of us watched 
a very close contest. There was an apparent tie 

between Elizabeth Garfield and Mar>' Louise 
Milford. The judges went into a long session, 
finally calling in Miss Trueblood and Miss 
Nacken to assist them. .-Xt last they decided, in 
view of Miss Garfield's interest in sports and the 
fact that she is a senior, to award the .\nthony 
medal to her." 

There was a roar of applause. Mar>- Lou, 
clapping with the rest, suddenly found that she 
did n't care, that she was glad Bett>- had the 

But then Miss Trueblood rose to her feet. 
"One moment," she said. "It seems that there 
were peculiar circumstances connected with the 
exhibition. There is reason to believe that one 
girl deliberateh' set herself to lose for the sake of 
the other." Bett>- among the seniors sent a 
guilty look at Mar>' Lou among the juniors. 
"She would probabh' have succeeded — had it 
not been that the other girl tried the same trick!" 

After the laughter had died down, she went on: 
"Now, because Lancaster has always stood for 
unselfishness, for lo>alt>- to friends, as well as for 
sportsmanship, the judges decided to ha\e a 
duplicate medal engraved with the name of Mary 
Louise Milford, who is also the winner of the 
Porter scholarship for the coming year." 

How the\' clapped ! How the exercises closed, 
Mar\' Lou ne\er quite knew. Somehow they 
were out on the lawn and the girls were singing — ■ 
first to Miss Trueblood and then to Betty and 
then to her: 

"God bless her. we love her! 
Oh, here 's to Marj- Millord, 
Who 's with us to-day!" 

Betts' and Man,' Lou stood together, fingering 
the twin medals, when Nacken came toward 

"But, Miss Nacken," Bett>- said, "how did they 
know that Mar\' Lou — that I — that we — " she 
stopped in confusion. 

Miss Nacken smiled, 
been called a grin. 

"You girls never will remember that an\thing 
said in the dressing-rooms is heard all over the 
g>'m. Your explanations after the exhibition 
added proof to a little suspicion 1 had, and the 
judges did the rest. And I think their decision 
was fair enough." 

It might almost ha\'e 



Copyright, igii, by Oliver Herford 


A LITTLE Mouse, who chanced to 

Near where a sleeping Lion la>', 
Forgetting all that prudence taught, 
X'entured too rashly — and was caught ! 
"O I-ion! spare nn' life. 1 pray!" 
Pleaded the Mouse: "I will repay 
Your kindness without fail." .And so 
The Lion laughed and let him go. 
The Mouse, soon after this mishap. 
Came on the Lion in a trap. 
Bound b>- strong ropes; without adu 
He set to work and gnawed thoni 

"A thousand thanks!" the Lion cried. 
'You '\e saved my life, and shamed 

mj- pride. 
For though it 's true I am a King. 
Position is not everything. 
I owe my life to your quick wit!" 
'Tray," said the Mouse, "don't 

mention it!" 




A Fox, once in a trap caught fast. 
Managed, by tugging hard, at last 
To free himself, only to find 
He 'd left his precious tail behind. 
Here was a pretty state of things! 
Exposed to all the shafts and stings 
Of ridicule and malice, too, 
What in the world was he to do? 
One day he hit upon a plan. 
Calling a meeting of the clan. 
He made :i ■iin'i'ch .iiirl thus began: 

"Dear fellow-Foxes! I regret 

To see that you are wearing yet 

That relic of antiquit>' — 

The tail. In good society 

It is no longer comme il faiit; 

Human Beings long ago 

Discarded it. 'T is an offense 

Both against style and common sense. 

Take my advice: don't hesitate; 

Cut off your tails before too late!" 

'Mid cricsof "Foolish !""Mad!" "Absurd!" 

Rose an old Fox. "I beg to state," 

Said he, "we should attach more weight 

To \-our adx'anced and loft\' \-iews 

Had you yourself a tail to lose!" 







A Lion that had grown too 

With age to Iea\e his den and 

I- or food, foreseeing mm that 

Must get his meals by strategy. 
Lay down, pretending to be 

The beasts, not dreaming 't was 

a trick 
And thinking one so near his 

No harm could possibly intend. 
Flocked to condole — alas! to 

The truth too late, as each in 

Was gobbled up. The Fox. less 

To trust appearances, alone 
Saw through the trick and 

stayed outside. 
"Come in, I beg!" the Lion 

"Thanks." said the Fox, "but 

I prefer 
To sta^• without. I notice. 

That all the footprints here- 
Go toward \our den, and none 
come out!" 


.■\ TlllRSTV Crow once found a jar 
That held some water, but 't was far 
Too narrow necked, and much too 

The water was for Waster Crow, 
With his short neck, to get a drink. 
The Crow then set himself to think. 
.\t last upon a plan he hit. 
"Since I cannot reach down to it. 
I must invent some wav." said he. 
"To make the water rise to me." 
\\ ith little pebbles, one by one, 
1 le filled the jar; as this was done 
The water rose and rose, until 
The thirsty Crow could drink his fill. 


Once, in the absence of the Cat. 
The Mice in solemn council sat. 
Some plan of action to discuss 
To curb her practice odious 
Of pr\ing into their affairs 
.And ])oiuu'ing on them imawares. 
.After much talk, the plan that nu I 
\\ ith most appro\"ai was to get 
.A piece of cord and hang thereby 
To Pussy's neck, upon the sly, 
A bell that would not fail to ring. 
When Pussy was about to spring, 
.And so announce her fell intention. 
Truly, a wonderful invention ! 
The Mice delightedly agreed: 
"Now," said the Chairman, "all we 

Is some one to attach the bell." 
At this an awful silence fell 
Upon the meeting; no one spoke. 
.At length, a voice the stillness broke; 
"I mo\e, since no one seems to yearn 
To hell the Cat, that we adjourn." 




.A H.ARE one day a Tortoise chaffed 
On her slow gait. The Tortoise 

" 'T is true I 'm slowest of the slow. 
-And you 're the fastest thing I know; 





-*, jr 

Yet notAvithstanding your swift 

Said she, "I '11 beat you in a race." 
The Hare consented, half in jest, 
To put the matter to the test, 
-And off they started. Like a flash, 
Half round the course in one swift 

Bounded the Hare; then, feeling sure 
That \ictory was now secure, 
Sat down to rest — and fell asleep. 
Meanwhile, his Rival, creep, creep, 

Came slowly on, caught up, and 

Creep-creep, creep-creep, until at 

The Hare, awaking, rubbed his eyes 
.\nd saw, to his surprise. 
The, faithful to her boast, 
Was waiting at the winning-post. 



The hands of the big clock in the upper corridor 
were creeping toward the half-hour, and a strange, 
almost uncanny, stillness had settled down over 
Encina Hall. On the stroke of six, the boys had 
scattered in a headlong rush across the campus 
wherever appetite, or pocketbook, directed — to 
the Count's, to Stickey's, or The Inn. 

Dexter MacDonald, in room 230, had not 
joined the noisy exodus, for a reason. He dis- 
covered the reason after he had — with more hope 
than success — turned his pockets inside out, one 
by one; the reason was a lone penny! 

The boy's healthy young appetite had already 
begun to assert itself. What could a fellow do 
to secure a meal when he had n't an\- money? 
There were not main- ways of earning money at 

Stanford, with t)\er two th()us;ind bo>s 
watching even,- chance in the small uni- 
\ ersit\- town. .^11 sorts of wild schemes 
daringly presented themselves to his 
notice, but were quickly rejected as ini- 
|)racticable, since the present crisis de- 
manded immediate tangible results. 

The thought suddenly occurred to 
him, "Borrow." .■Xnd then the silence 
of the big room was broken by a mirth- 
less laugh. Why, that was exactly what 
the other boys had been doing all along 
-"Pepper" Grein and "Swede" Ryder 
and "Tubby" Wells! They had bor- 
rowed from him, with the result that 
he was now "flat broke" and hungr>-; 
and his check from home was already 
two days overdue. 

It was n't the plucky little mother's 
fault — of that. Dexter was certain. She 
was n't the kind that forgets. S)me- 
thing had happened that prevented her 
sending the check as usual. 

The bo>'s e>'es grew mist>- as he re- 
called a time, a few months before, 
when it had been a hard pull for his 
mother to send the monthly check. 
The butcher had failed to pay for the 
calves on time, and the expected first 
pa>ment on the prune crop had been 
delated, she wrote. Dexter ne\er knew 
who adxanced the money that month ; 
but it came. And only three days late ! 

He had offered then to return home, 
to give up his engineering course at the 
university', though the cold chills ran 
over him at the mere thought of it; but 
the little mother would ha\e none of it. 
Dexter recalled ever>' word of her replj-; 

No, indeed I I don't want you to think of leaving 
Stanford! We '11 manage some way. Call on the 
MacDonald grit. Your father never let it fail him as 
long as he lived; and you must "carrj* on." You 'II 
find it oftentimes requires more courage to face ridicule 
than it would to plunge into real, physical danger. 

But cheer up. Sonny! Better times are coming. 
Just think how much you '11 be making when you 're 
a full-fledged civil engineer. 

Thank goodness, you have enough clothes to last 
through the college year I 

"Clothes!" the boy muttered half under his 
breath. "Yes, but what good can they do me?" 
And then, as the humor of the situation dawned 
upon him, a grin broke slowly over his set lips. 

"If only Mother and Uncle Henr\- were here!" 
he said. "They cautioned me so carefuUj' against 



borrowing, — and I never have, — but they did n't 
say a word about lending." 

This explanation cleared the situation in his 
mind, but did not make it a comfortable one. 
It was n't that the boys were dishonest. They 
were simph- careless; and, ha\ing plenty them- 
seU-es, did not realize how hard pressed Dexter 
was sometimes to get through the month on a 
none-too-large allowance. They alwa>s paid 
back what they borrowed, — sometime, — when it 
was most con%-enient to themselves. 

"If I just had backbone enough to refuse once!" 
Dexter groaned, as he lay on the bed staring 
blankl>- up at the ceiling. "They 're good old 
scouts, all of 'em, but dog-goned thoughtless, 
I 'II say!" 

Not only was money borrowed, but personal 
belongings as well; and when these "came home" 
at all, they were decidedly the worse for wear. 
But then, look at the honor! \\'hy, his best 
scarf-pin was accorded the supreme privilege of 
hobnobbing with the dignified upper-classmen at 
a senior part>! and his new tennis-racket took a 
prominent part in the annual tournament against 
the Univensity of California. His white bow-tie 
and his lone pair of gloves attended the junior 
prom in state; while his "uke" was a regular 
attendant at Encina orchestra practice; and many 
a night — while Dexter was sleeping soundl> — had 
its soft tinkle serenaded some fair co-ed in one of 
the women's sorority houses along the row, 
usualh' spoken in capitals. Yes, there was no 
doubt of it. Dexter MacDonald's belongings were 
most popular. "If the fellows could only be 
made to see the other side of it," the boy mused. 

Then the solution of the problem burst upon 
him full-fledged, and at first fairly staggered him. 
Oh, it would ne\er do! The bo\s would cut him 
cold, and their friendship had meant so nnich in 
this, his first college year! .And then as a realiza- 
tion of his present predicament forced itself upon 
him, he drew his lips down into a firm, straight 
Hne and knitted his brows determinedly. 

It would take some starch out of his pride, 
perhaps, but the boys must be made to realize 
that a two-bit piece when he actually needed it 
was worth more than a dollar at any other time. 
And if the thing was to be done, he would do it 
thoroughly and make a clean sweep. The boys 
would have to take things serioush- some time, 
and the time had come! .A desperate disease 
required a desperate cure. 

Now that his decision was made, Dexter's 
fighting spirit, long dormant, was thoroughly 
aroused. He sprang up and, opening a drawer 
in his chiffonier, drew out a bunch of blank cards. 
At first he wrote rapidK- upon the cards ; then more 
slowly', stopping occasional!)' to search the 

chifionier drawers or the trunk. Then, with a 
nod and a grin, the scribbling proceeded. 

When the job was completed, Dexter was 
appalled at the number of cards he held in his 
hand. "Gosh!" he muttered. "I had no idea it 
was so bad as this." Then snapping a rubber 
band around the pack, he thrust it into his pocket 
and puckered his lips into a hopeful whistle. 

Robert Scott, Dexter's room-mate, flung wide 
the door of room 230. 

"Where did you go, Dex, old scout? I did n't 
.see you at the Count's." 

"No — I did n't go there for supper," the other 
hedged. "Did you stop at the post-office?" 

"Yes, and not a blessed thing did either of us 
get! Expecting a letter, Dex?" 

"Well — er — no. Have >ou seen Pepper and 
Tubby and the rest of the fellows since supper, 

"No. Why?" 

"Oh, I just wanted to see the gang to-night. 
Wonder if you could round 'em up?" 

"Sure!" .\nd as Bob Scott traversed the long 
hallway he muttered to himself, "Good old Dex! 
I '11 bet his mother has sent him another box from 
home." And his mouth watered for a taste of the 
big fruit-cake, the salted almonds, and figs that 
experience had taught him would fill the box. 

But his room-mate, left alone with his own 
troubled thoughts, was tantalizing his hunger 
with a \ision of that last breakfast at home — the 
flavor of the pink ham, the crisp tenderness of the 
waffles — their holes brimming over with syrupy 
deliciousness. "Yum, yum! I can fairly taste 
'em now!" he sighed, in ecstasy; "only I can't," 
he added, ruefully. 

Room 230 was fairly bulging with the crowd 
that gathered. The m\'stic words 'a box from 
home' alwa\-s hold an irresistible appeal to college 
boys, and the>- now crowded the window-sills, the 
two beds, and the chair arms. But boylike, the>- 
were growing a bit impatient. Where was the 
box? They could n't catch a glimpse of it any- 
where about the room. Mrs. MacDonald's boxes 
from the ranch had been generously shared with 
all those present; and since the gang was all there 
now, what was Dex waiting for? 

There he stood, looking a bit ner\ous. There 
was something about the boy's frank, good- 
natured face that had from the first made a quick 
appeal. Perhaps it was the humorous little twist 
of his mouth when he smiled; or the friendHness 
of the big brown eyes. 

Some one suggestively began to sing "The 
Gang 's All Here," and received a pillow sent with 
an unerring aim. The affair was rapidly resolv- 
ing itself into a full-fledged rush. 



"Remember whal we did lo \ou fellows in the 
last frosh-soph rush!" panted Tubb\- Wells, a 
freshman whose avoirdupois greatly hampered his 
movements in close quarters. 

"Yes, but just recall the tubbing and drubbing 
\ou frosh got at the annual poster fight!" exulted 
his soph opponent, with a superior swagger. 

"Quit \our ragging!" warned Swede Ryder, the 
big blond sophomore. "Tubb>-, if you could 
only see yourself at this minute! Vou 'd make an 
abalone giggle. You 're a sort of false alarm, 
anyway, son. Forget it!" 

"Gentlemen!" began Dexter, desperately. 
How he wished he could crawl through a hole and 
pull the hole along after him. How could he 
ever go through with this farce! Oh, if he had 
never thought of it! He had no idea it would be 
so hard. His morale had sunk almost to the 
zero point. 

But a glimpse of his scarf-pin perched jauntily 
in Pepper Grein's flashy new four-in-hand brought 
him up with a snap. He pulled himself together. 
He 'd go through with the thing if it look a leg! 
It was the MacDonald grit that he was calling 
upon now. He was within his rights, and' his 
conscience ceased to trouble him. 

"Gentlemen," he repeated, with an air of mock 
seriousness, "whene\"er the merchant becomes 
overstocked he ad\ertises a 'special,' and you 
fellows all rush in to grab the stuft'. I concluded 
that the idea might be used to advantage in nn- 
own case. 1 've accumulated such a lot of things, 
and I can't use 'em, nor wear 'em, nor even keep 
track of 'em. So I 'ni going to stage an auction; 
and somebody 's going to walk off with some rare 

His restless fingers encountered the pack of 
little cards and he drew it out. The boys looked 
at each other wonderingK'. Xo one seemed to 
know quite what to say. What sort of game could 
this be, anyway? 

"1 've listed the things I can get along perfecth' 
well without." Dexter snapped the rubber 
hand from the cards. "First, there 's my white 
vest. I have n't seen it since the junior prom, so 
it may be a little under the weather. But then," 
he continued, confidently, "it 's i)erfectly all 
right; only a little matter of a cleaner's bill that 
won't amount to more than six bits. 1 think the 
\est could be found in Shorty's room, it >ou want 
to examine it." 

"Ouch!" whistled that individual. And as all 
eyes were focused upon him he reddened de- 
fensively. Well, what was all the fuss about? 
The thing had just slipped his mind, that was all. 

"Then there 's my number fifteen collar of the 
newest cut. I 've only worn it once, but it 's 
mighty comfortable — as Alex probably can testify. 

It 's good as new, and three cents will launder it. 
My tennis-racket is of no use to me. I last saw 
it in the Stanford-California tournament. Possi- 
bly needs restringing or may be a little warped, 
but a good racket, nevertheless," he grinned 

Sw'ede Ryder's conscience wriggled uncomfort- 
ably. A hot shame clutched at his throat and 
crimsoned his face. Weeks had passed since the 
tournament, and he had not even put the bor- 
rowed racket into its press, as he knew he should 
ha\e done. 

Dexter hastih" sketched through the remainder 
of the cards: the uke, the gloves, a dollar that 
Tubb>' Wells has borrowed three weeks before, a 
dollar and a half for concert tickets to tide 
Shorty Bishop o\er a temporar\- embarrassment 
and to save his pride from breaking a "date," 
and so on to the end. 

The self-appointed auctioneer mounted his 
trunk and proceeded in a crisp, businesslike tone 
— outwardly and ostensibly calm, but with an 
inward sense of dread. The cards were his sole 
"visible assets," so he would auction ofi' the cards. 

"Scotty, I appoint you clerk. Now we '11 
proceed. Gentlemen, what am I bid for a per- 
fectly good collar?" And he held up the card 
on which the item was listed. "Do I hear a bid? 
Thank you kindly. The gentleman on my right 
bids fifteen cents. Do 1 hear another? Don't 
all speak at once. Fifteen I 'm bid! Who '11 
make it twent\? Last chance — going — -going — 
gone at fifteen cents! 

"Now for my opal scarf-pin. You can see it, 
if )'ou wish, in Pepper's tie. Use your lorgnettes, 
gentlemen! You '11 see a handsome stone that 
always brings its wearer good luck. What am 1 
bid for this solid gold scarf-pin?" 

The bo>s seemed paraKzed. Not a word came 
from them. 

"Three dollars. Thank \ou." Dexter nodded 
to an imaginar\ bidder. "Three dollars I 'm 
bid, who '11 make it four. Three I 'm bid. Stej) 
right up, gentlemen, and examine the pin. 
Three I 'm — •" 

But the auctioneer was addressing empty space. 
The bo>s with one accord had fled. 

Dexter's head felt queer, someway, and a lump 
kept catching in his throat. It was this that he 
had feared. The boss had deserted him! They 
had n't taken the thing as he had meant it, and 
he had lost their respect. Then right on the 
heels of this reflection there came a shrewd 
suspicion even more mortifying: — -that the boys 
knew he was down to rock bottom and thought he 
was trying to work some sort of graft. 

"Oh, why did I ever think of it!" he groaned, 






The big hall outside was nois>' with hoarsi- 

"Gimme four bits, quick! I '11 pa\' it back to- 
morrow, sure!" 



not Dex 

"All right, see that you do! 
MacDonald, I '11 have you know." 

"Good old Dex! Have n't we been the limit, 
though? Let 's take up a collection," a freshman 
suggested sympathetically. 

But a soph, in his superior wisdom, laughed 
him to scorn. "Every month or so you have a 

good idea, son, but don't let it excite you. 'Take 
up a collection!' " he mocked. "Little do you 
know old Dex!" 

"Vou frosh can't help thinking rot, maybe, but 
you need n't let so much 
of it escape," scoffed an- 
other soph. "The kind 
of 'collection' we '11 take 
up is a 'collection' of 
Dex's own things that 
we '\e all borrowed and 
failed to return. Now, 
that includes borrowed 
money, too! Dig it up 
someway, even.' last one 
of you, and bring the 
stuff here within five 

Dexter was weariK' un- 
iN'ing his shoes. "Might 
as well go to bed," he 
said, huskily. 

Then, with a wild 
whoop, the avalanche 
descended upon him. 
His possessions rained 
down in a hea\->- shower. 
There was siher, too, 
in a careless heap on 
the table. But Dexter 
saw none of it. He was 
eagerly searching the 
faces of his friends and 
his heart was singing 
with happiness. The fel- 
lows had stood the test! 
He knew, too, that this 
demonstration was only 
the outward symbol of 
an inward reformation; 
and the assurance heart- 
ened him. 

With an unstead>' 
laugh, he grabbed 
Short>'s arm. "You old 
alligator!" he said aflfec- 
tionately, "I don't want 
that white vest. Xever 
did like it anyway. You 
keep it!" 

"Not on >our tintype! 
It 's sort of mussed, but >ou '11 find the ])rice of 
laundering it in one of the pockets." A sheepish 
grin overspread Shorty's freckled face. 

Dexter tried not to laugh as he noted the mis- 
cellaneous collection upon the bed — but his lips 
betra\ed him. .-\nd soon the room was in a 



"Reminds me of 'Roughs' Day' that pile o' 
clothes," a soph grinned, reminiscently. 

"Quite enough there for a 'true-so' for old 
Dex," suggested a frosh brother. 

"Look here, fellows, you know you did n't 
borrow all that money," and Dexter eyed the 
heap of coins suspiciously. 

"On the square, we did! Some of those loans 
are so old they '\e grown whiskers. We ought 
to pay interest on 'em!" 

"If some one will form a club, imposing heavy 
fines on borrowers — " placidly suggested Tubby 
Wells, seated in the one rocking-chair. 

"Hear! Hear! Wells!" shouted the others. 

"I don't care! We 've been a bunch o' pikers. 
And I for one — " 

But Dexter was eager to change the subject. 
"Then you fellows did n't — •" he began. 

"Of course not! Nothing to get sore about. 
We had it coming to us. And now I propose 
three rousing old cheers — " 

He was interrupted by a quick, sharp rap at the 
door. Dexter glanced at the heap of silver upon 
the table and the thought flashed into his mind, 
"I '11 drop Mother a card not to bother about 
sending my check." 

And then he rubbed his unbelieving eyes. 
She stood before him, her cheeks glowing from 
her long climb up the stairs and the weight of a 
heavy box she was carrying. 

Her glance swept the room. "Why — what 's 
all this?" 

Swede Ryder was spokesman for the crowd. 
"Oh, Dexter was just revealing the contents of 
his — er — 'hope' less chest, IVIrs. MacDonald. We 
're just going." 

"Better stay!" she advised. "I 've brought a 
box from the ranch. Of course you 've all had 
your supper, but maybe — " 

"We 'II try pretty hard, Mother," laughed 
Dexter, a little unsteadily. "Come on, fellows; 
don't be bashful." 

A. May Iloladay. 


{A Quadruple Acrostic) 

Roses! Close to our back door, red ones grow, four kinds — fouR. 
On nice June days I like to go out there to gather some, and O 
Such big ones! My Sister Bess spends her time with them, I guesS. 
Even when her friend is there, Elbridge Or\-ilIe Smith St. ClarE. 
Sister sits with him for hours, simply looking at those flowerS. 

James Rowe. 




Author of "The Sapphire Signet." "The Slipper Point Mystery," etc.. eli:. 


It has been a strange series of mysteries centering about the closed-for-the-season bungalow on the seashore, 
Curlew's Nest, that led up to the night of the great hurricane. Leslie Crane, in a bungalow next door, and Phyllis 
Kelvin, in one farther down the beach, have discovered many curious things about it. chief of which is a strange 
bronze box in a burlap bag that Leslie's dog has dug up from the sand in front of the place. They could not get 
the box open, but they have hidden it in Leslie's bungalow, and in its place they have buried an old jewel-box of the 
same size and sewed up in a similar burlap bag. There is also a young English girl in the village whose acquaintance 
they have made. Eileen Ramsay, who seems to have .some strange connection with this bungalow, though just what, 
they have been unable to discover. They suspect that somehow Phyllis's brother Ted is also involved in the 
mystery. One more curious character seems to be concerned in the affair, a man who once seemed to hmp; but 
later they saw him fishing on the beach, and his limp had disappeared. 

Then, the great hurricane arrives, lashing the ocean up almost to their doors. Out of the storm, who should 
come to them but Eileen Ramsay, saying she has lost her way while coming in her car from the hospital where she 
has been to see her sick grandfather. While looking out at the storm, they suddenly see two dark figures circling 
about the old log whce the false box is buried, and Eileen unexpectedly calls out, "Oh. Ted. be careful!" 

Phyllis turns on Eileen and asks if her brother Ted is one of the figures and if he is in danger. Eileen timidly 
acknowledges that this is the case. They all rush out, with Rags the dog. and he attacks Ted's assailant. It is 
only then that they recognize this other person as the man with the former limp. He is very indignant and declares 
that the object they were struggling for has been stolen from them b\- some third person, who sneaked upon them 
in the dark. He goes in pursuit of this person, and the others return to Leslie's bungalow. 

Here they have a general explanation of the mysteries, chiefly by Eileen. She tells how her grandfather, the 
Hon. Arthur Ramsay, who occupied Curlew's Nest the past summer, has had his life threatened by a great Chinese 
official because he refuses to give up some letters of international importance that he has in his possession. These 
letters he always kept by him in a little bronze box with a secret spring. Finally he entrusted this box to be hidden 
by his man Geoffrey Ciaines at the now deserted summer bungalow. Curlew's Nest, where he thinks it will be safe. 
Geoffrey goes to execute this commission, but. strangely enough, never returns, and they fear something has hap- 
pened to him. Then the grandfather falls ill. and Eileen, to assist him. offers to try and find out whether the box 
is really hidden at Curlew's Nest. In this she is discovered and assisted by Ted. who warns her that the two girls 
are trying to fathom her secret. Just when Ted thinks he has found it and is struggling lor it. a third unknown 
rushes in. snatches it, and gets away. At this moment there is a knock at the door and in walks the man who had a 
while before been wrestling with Ted in the storm. He discloses his badge of the New Vork police force, and he 
says that the person he followed got away on a train to the city with the burlap bag and its contents. 


CHAPTER XX "What i//otf\ve do?" cried Leslie. "AuntMarcia 

will be frightened to death if she knows it. and 
how 1 'm to get her out of here in this howling 

The man also started back at the sight of all four storm, or where I can take her, 1 can't imagine!" 

of them together, .^nd Rags, who had been dry- But Ted had been critically examining the 

ing himself quietly by the fire, rose with a snarl weather. "Don't worr\-. Leslie!" he soothed her. 

and leaped toward his enemy of the earlier part "The wind is shifting. I noticed just now that it 

of the evening. seemed to be around to the north and is getting 

"Heavens! don't let that animal loose on me farther ■west also. That means the storm is al- 

again!" cried the man, backing off. "I 've just most over. And the tide ought to turn in ten 

been down to the village doctor and had my arm minutes or so. It 's practically at its highest 

cauterized, as it is. I stopped in to tell you now. Ten chances to one it won't rise more than 

something >'ou 'd better know. Probably you a foot or two further. But we '11 keep watch, and 

ha\e n't noticed it, if you have n't looked out if it does, we '1! get your aunt out of here in Eileen's 

recentl)'. The water is rising rapidly and will car, which is just down the road, and take her 

soon be very nearly up to your bungalow. You either to our place or to the \illage. Our bimga- 

may want to get out before it sw-eeps under it!" low is n't likely to be damaged, as it 's farther up 

With a cry of alarm, the>- all leaped toward the the dune than these. Don't worrj^!" 

door, Ted grasping Rags firmly b>' the collar. It Thus encouraged, Leslie turned indoors again, 

was even as the man had said. Peering through and the man, who was still lingering on the porch, 

the darkness, they could see the water spreading remarked: 

inward from a recent breaker, only abotit twenty- "If it is n't too much trouble, friends. I 'd like 

live feet from the \'eranda. .Xnd the next breaker to come in for a minute or two and ask \ou folks 

spread in e\en a few inches further. a few questions about that little fracas this 




eveiiiiig and how you came to be mixefl up in il. 
It 's all riglil and perfecll\- proper!" he hastened 
to add, seeing their startled glances. "I can show 
you my credentials." He opened his coat and 
exhibited a shield on his vest — the 
shield of a detective of the New 
York police force! 

So amazed were they that they 
could scarcely reph', but the man 
took matters in his own hands and 
walked into the house. And 
Leslie never even thought to warn 
him to speak softly because of 
Aunt Marcia! 

Unconsciously they grouped 
themselves about him at the open 
fire. .'\nd Rags, now that the 
obnoxious stranger had been ad- 
mitted to the house on a hospita- 
ble footing, made no further 
demonstrations of enmity. 

"My name is Barnes — Detective 
Barnes of the Xew York force," he 
began, "and I 'd like to clear up 
one or two little puzzles here be- 
fore I go on with this business. 
It 's a rather peculiar one. I 
heard this young gentleman refer 
to a car that was standing in the 
road near here and say it belonged 
to one of vou young ladies named 
Eileen. 1 'd like to inform i\lis> 
Eileen that the part>- who got that 
little article we were all scrapping 
for to-night jumped into her car 
when he got to the road, tore like 
mad in it to the station, left it there, 
and caught the express for New 
York. I was just in time to see 
him disappearing in it, but of 
course / had to walk to the village. 
I suspected what he was going to 
do, though, and I went straight to 
the station and found the car 
standing there. So I took the 
liberty of getting in it, driving 
myself to the village doctor, and 
then back out here. \'ou will find your car. .Miss 
Eileen, standing just where you left it, but I 
thought you 'd like to know it had had the little 

Eileen opened her mouth to repK', but the man 
gave her no chance, turning immediately to Ted. 
"And as for >ou, young man, I suppose >ou 
thought >ou were doing a wonderful stunt when 
you landed into me to-night, just as I 'd unearthed 
the thing I 've been on the trail of for a week; but 
I '11 have to tell vou that yuu 've spoiled one of 

the prettiest little pieces of detective work I 've 
iMidertaken for several years, and may have 
helped to jirecipitate a bit of international trouble, 
besides. I don't know what your moti\'e was, 


— I suppose you thought me a burglar, — but — ■ 
"Just a moment!" cried Eileen, springing for- 
ward. "Tell me, why are you concerned in this? 
M\' name is Ramsay and I have a right to ask!" 

Detecti\e Barnes was visibly startled. "Are 
you a relative of the Honorable .Arthur Ramsay?" 
he demanded; and when she had told him, he 
e.\elaimed, "Then you must know all about 
(.".eoffrey Gaines and how he disappeared!" 

"I '\'e known him since I was a baby," she 
answered; "but how he disappeared is still an 




awful m^'sten' to us. Mj- grandfather is \ery ill 
in the Branch^■ille hospital, you know." 

"But did n't he receive my letter?" cried Mr. 
Barnes. "I sent it two days ago!" 

"He has been too ill to read any mail for the 
last two days," replied Eileen, "and, of course, I 
have not opened it." 

"Well, that explains why I have n't heard from 
him!" the man exclaimed, with a sigh of relief. 
"Then I guess you will be interested to hear that 
Gaines is alive and well, but kept a close prisoner 
by some 'heathen Chinees' in a house on a west side 
street in New York." 

"But how — Why — Did it happen the — the 
night he — came down here?" she ventured. 

"I see ^-ou 're pretty well informed about the 
matter," he remarked cautiously. "And if these 
others are equally so, I guess it 's safe for me to 
go on and give you a history- of the thing." 

Eileen nodded, and he went on: 

"Gaines and I used to know each other in 
England, years before he entered your grand- 
father's ser\ice. In fact, we had been school- 
mates together. Then I came over to this coun- 
try and entered the detective ser\'ice, and he went 
into another walk of life. But we kept in touch 
with each other by writing occasionally. A week 
or so ago I was astonished to recei\'e a letter from 
him, written on all sorts of odds and ends of 
paper and in an envelop plainh' manufactured by 
himself. It contained some very singular iiew's. 

"It gave me first the history of those letters and 
how anxious your grandfather was to keep hold of 
them. Then it told how he (Gaines) had taken 
the box down here that night and tried first to 
conceal it in the bungalow. But no place in the 
house seemed safe enough to him. He tried to 
dig up a brick in the fireplace and bur>' it there, 
but gave it up after he had broken his knife in the 
attempt. Then he had the inspiration to bury it 
in the sand somewhere outside, and he described 
where he did locate it, right by that log. If 
Gaines had known much about the tides here, he 
would n't have thought that a ver>' good scheme. 
He did n't, though, and thought he 'd found an 
excellent place. He then turned to walk back to 
the hotel, but had n't gone more than a mile 
(it was storming hard, if you remember) when a 
terrific blow on the back of the head knocked him 
senseless. He ne\er knew another thing until he 
came to, after what must ha\e been a number of 
days, to find himself a prisoner in a house he 
judged to be somewhere in New York. And from 
his description I 've located it about West Sixty- 
first Street." 

"He api)eared to be in the keeping of a China- 
man who tlressed American fashion and spoke 
good English. I le was told that he was a i)risoner 

and that it was hopeless to tn,- to communicate 
with any one until he had reported exactly where 
and how those letters had been concealed. He 
begged for a day or two to consider the matter 
and was granted it, but told that if he did not 
compK- with their wishes he would disappear for 
good and no one would ever be the wiser. 

"In the meantime, he managed to get together 
a few scraps of paper, and with the stub of a 
pencil he happened to have about him, he wrote 
this letter to me, describing the location of the 
letters and how he had hidden them in a bronze 
box wrapped in a burlap bag. He urged me to 
go and get them at once, and then, later, he could 
safely describe to his captors where he had hidden 
them. Perhaps >'ou wonder how he expected to 
get this letter to me, since he was so carefulK- 
guarded. He said that he was on the third floor. 
front, of the house, near a corner where he could 
see a post-box. He happened to ha\e a solitar\' 
stamp in his pocket, which he put on the letter. 
Then, at some hour when he thought his captors 
were busy elsewhere, he expected to attract the 
attention of some children plaxing in the street 
and ofter to throw them some mi)ne\' if the\' would 
mail the letter in the near-b)' box. .As I recei\ed 
the letter, no doubt his plan worked successfulK'. 
.At an>' rate, I got it a week ago and started on the 
trail immediateU'. 

"I landed out here one morning while it was 
still dark, and dug all around the spot mentioned, 
but could n't find a trace of the hag or box." 

"Oh, I saw \'ou that morning!" cried Leslie, 
"But when >ou walked awa>' \\>u seemed to stoop 
and had a bad limp! I don't understand!" 

"I know you saw me," he smiled, "or, at least, 
that some one did, for as I happened to glance 
back at this house, it wasgrowing just light enough 
for me to realize there was some one watching at 
the window. So I adopted that stoop and lim|) 
as I walked awa\'. just .so >ou would not be likeK' 
to recognize me if >'ou .saw me again. It is a 
I 've often practised. " 

"But it did n't work that time," laughed Leslie, 
"for I recognized you again this afternoon by the 
way you dusted the sand off your hands and threw 
away the stick!" 

"Well, you are certainh' a more obser\ing 
person than most people!" he answered graveU'. 
"But to goon. Of course, I was \ery much disap- 
pointed but I remained here, staying at the village 
hotel, and kept as close a watch on the place as 
was possible, pretending all the time that I was 
here on a fishing excursion. I tried very hard to 
keep out of sight of these bungalows, in the day- 
time, anyway. The da>' you all went oft' on the 
auto ride the coast seemed clear, and I went 
through the place. But 1 had n't been out ol it 

19-' 1 1 



long and walked down to the hearli, when I saw 
the two men dri\e np in a car and enter the bunga- 
low also, and later come out to dig by that old 
log. Of course, they did n't see me about! I 
took care of that. And I knew, beyond a doubt, 
that they were (laine.s'.s Chinamen, come to find 
the booty. 

"Of course the>' did n't find it. any more than 
I had, and I felt sure they would go back and 
make it hot for ( iaines. I went back to my hotel 
that night to think it all over and make further 
plans, and did n't \isit the bimgalow again till 
next evening, when I found to my astonishment a 
queer note, type-written, on the table there — a 
warning that the article stolen from its hiding- 
place had better be returned. .And under it, a 
reply, printed in lead-pencil, saying it would be 

"I could n't make head or tail of the business. 
I judged the type-written part to have been left 
by the Chinese. But who had scribbled the other 
was a dark-brown niysten,'. .\t an\- rate, I con- 
cluded that to-night would probably be the crucial 
time, and determined to get in ahead of every one 
else. The storm was a piece of good fortune to 
me, as it concealed things so well, and about nine 
o'clock I was on the spot, proceeding to dig down 
by the old log. Pretty soon I realized, though, 
that there was some one else around. .And just 
as I 'd unearthed the bag. which had been mysteri- 
ously returned to its hiding-place, you appeared 
out of somewhere, young man, fell on me like a 
thousand of brick, and we had a grand old tussle. 
I 'II give >ou credit for being some wrestler, but I 
was getting the best of it when along came you 
others with that terrible beast and did the busi- 
ness for me ! 

"I thought all along, though, that you, Mr. 
Ted, were one of the Chinamen. But that per- 
son must have been on the scene also, probably 
lurking in the shelter of the bungalow and watch- 
ing the fracas. And when your electric light 
blazed on the scene, Miss," he turned to Phyllis, 
"he no doubt saw the bag in my hand. Then, 
when the light went out for a moment, he rushed 
in and grabbed the prize and was off while we two 
were so busy with one another! 

"It was a losing game all around. While I 
was in the village, I 'phoned my department in 
New York to meet his train when it got in and 
arrest him, if they could find him, and search him 
at once. But after I 'd been to the doctor's (I 
had a long session there) I 'phoned them again 
and heard that the train had been met but no one 
answering such a description as I could give had 
got off. No doubt he left the train at some 
station short of New York 

"Well, the prize is lost for this time, but per- 

haps we can pick up the trail again. .At an>' rate, 
("iaines is probabh' free, for they promised to 
release him as .soon as the letters were obtained." 

When he had ceased speaking, Leslie got up 
from her chair and disappeared into the kitchen. 
When she returned, she laid a dark bundle in the 
lap of Eileen. 

"I guess the prize was found some time ago!" 
she remarked quietly. "Suppose you open that 
bag and see, Eileen!" 

.And amid an astounded silence, Eileen's fingers 
managed to unloose the fastening of the bag and 
insert themselves in its depths. Then with a 
little cr>' of joy, she drew out and held up, for all 
to view, the bronze box that had caused all the 
disturbance — the Dragon's Secret! 

The complicated explanations were all over at 
last, and the curious, fragmentary story was pieced 
together. Detective Barnes took up the little 
bronze box and examined it carefully, experiment- 
ing, as they all had done, to find a way of opening 
it — and, of course, unsuccessfully. 

"There 's one thing that puzzles me, though," 
remarked Ted, "about that queer type-written 
note. How and why and by whom was it left 

"It was written on thin, foreign-looking paper," 
replied the detective, "and I can only guess that 
the foreigners left it there, though probably not 
on their first trip that afternoon. No doubt they 
either went to the village, or, more likely, returned 
to the city to talk it over, perhaps with Gaines. 
And he, supposing I had long since captured the 
prize, and to put them off the scent, suggested 
that some one near by may have been meddling 
with the matter and that they leave a warning 
for them. I feel rather certain he must have 
done this to gain time, for he knew that if I had 
found the thing, I would immediately set about 
ha\ing him released, and he must have wondered 
why I had n't done so. Perhaps he thought I 
was having difficulty locating the house where 
they had him hidden. But, Great Scott! — that 
makes me think! They must by this time have 
discovered the trick you played. Miss Phyllis, and 
be jumping mad over ha\ing been so fooled. 
Perhaps they think Gaines is responsible for it, 
and they '11 certainly be making it hot for him! I 
must get to the city immediately and get him out 
of that hole. Ought n't to waste another minute. 
If you can spare your car, Miss Eileen, I 'd like to 
run up to the city with it, as I know there are no 
more trains to-night. I '11 guarantee to fetch it 
and Gaines both back in the morning!" 

"You certainly may ha\e it," replied Eileen, 
"and \ou may take me with you and leave me at 
the hospital, on the way. Grandfather must 




know of this at once. I 'm positive he 11 recover 
now, since the worr>' is all over. But first, 
would n't you all like to see something? I hap- 
pen to know the secret of opening this box. 
Grandfather showed it to me when I was a 
little girl, and he used to let me play with it." 

She took a pin from her dress, inserted into the 
car\-ed eye of the dragon and pressed it in a 
certain fashion — and the lid of the bronze box flew 
up! They all pressed forward eagerly and gazed 
in. There lay the packet of foreign letters, safe 
and sound. Eileen lifted them and looked curi- 
ously underneath. Nothing else was in the box 
except some strange, thin bits of yellow, foreign 
paper co\-ered with ^•ague pictures and curious 
Chinese characters. The>' seemed to be so thin 
and old as to be almost falling to pieces. 

"I don't know what these things are," she 
remarked, "but they probably ha\e nothing to do 
with this affair, an\wa>'. Grandfather was al- 
ways picking up queer old things on his travels. 
But he must have thought them interesting, or he 
never would ha^■e kept them in here. But we 
must go now," she ended, closing the box. "And 
I '11 see all you dear people to-morrow. This has 
surely been a wonderful night!" 

But just as she was ready to go. she said, "Do 
show me the dust\' shelf where this was hidden, 
please!" and then, as she stood gazing up at it, 
she exclaimed, "To think that it lay here behind 
those worn-out old kitchen things all the time we 
were so madly hunting for it ! But perhaps it was 
the safest place, after all !" 

The two girls escorted Eileen and Mr. Barnes to 
the door, Ted offering to see them to the car. 

As Leslie and Phyllis returned to the room, they 
were startled to see Aunt Marcia, in a dressing- 
gown, peering out of the door of her room and 
blinking sleepily. 

"\\"hat on earth are you two girls doing up at 
this unearthly hour.^" she inquired. "I woke and 
thought I heard \oices and came out to see!" 

"Oh, we '\e been talking and watching the 
storm!" laughed Leslie. "It 's all over now, and 
the stars are shining. You 'd better go back to 
bed, .'\unt Marcia. The fire 's out and it 's cold." 

And as the good lad>' turned back into her 
room Leslie whispered t<i Phyllis, "And she slept 
through all Ihal — and iic\er knew! How can I 
be thankful enough!" 



"Phyllis! I 've got a nibble, Phyllis! I believe 
I can land him. too. And it will be the first I '\c 
really managed to catch! ' Leslie began to pla\' 
her line, her hands trembling with cNritcnienl. 

The two girls and Ted stood at the ocean's edge, 
almost directly in front of the bungalows, whiling 
away a glorious, crisp afternoon in striving to 
induce reluctant fish to bite. For some reason or 
other, thej- seemed remarkably shy that day. 
Leslie's nibble had been the first suggestion of 
possible luck. Just as she was cautiousU- begin- 
ning to reel in her line, a pair of hands was clasped 
o\er her eyes, and a ga\' \oice laughed, "Guess 

"Eileen!" cried Leslie, joyfulK', forgetting all 
about her nibble. "Oh. but it 's good to see you! 
We '\e missed >ou so since >ou left. W here did 
you come from?" 

"Grandfather and I motored down to-day," 
replied Eileen, as they all crowded round her, "to 
stay over night at Aunt Sally's in the village. 
He 's going to drive out here a little later, with 
Geoffrey. at the wheel, because he wants to see you 
people. You know, we sail for England on Satur- 
da>', and he says he does n't intend to lea\e before 
he has a chance to greet the friends who did so 
much for him. You 've no idea how much better 
he is! He began to pick up the moment I told 
him the news that night; and in the two weeks 
since, he 's become like another person. But he 
hates it in New York and it does n't agree with 
him, and he just wanted to come down here once 
more before we left." 

"But how did you get here, if he 's coming later 
in the car?" demanded Phyllis. 

"Oh, I -walked, of course! It was a glorious day 
for it. .\unt Sally wondered so. to .see me taking 
the air in an>'thing but that car! What a dear 
she is! And how scandalously I had to treat her 
when I stayed there before. But the dear lady 
ne\er suspected that I was in an agon>" of worr>' 
and suspense all the time, and did n't dare to be 
nice to her for fear I 'd just be tempted to gi\e wa\' 
and tell the whole secret. I used to long to throw 
nnself in her lap and boo-hoo on her shoulder! 
I '\ e made it all up with her since, though ! 
There 's Grandfather now! Come up to the 
\eranda. all of \ou, because he 's not strong 
enough yet to walk on the sand." 

They hurried up to the house and got thei-e in 
time for Eileen to make the introductions. They 
were all deepU' attracted to the tall, stooping, 
gray-haired, pleasant-mannered gentleman who 
greeted them so cordialK' — as if the>" were old 
and \'alued friends instead of such recent 

"I 'm going to ask >ou to let me .•iit awhile on 
>our front \eranda." he said. "I want to get a ■ 
last impression of this lo\'eh' spot to carrj' away 
with me to England. Also. I would like to have 
a 1 lial with you young folks and tell \oii how 
iiiurh I ,ippreriale what \i>u .ill did Uv us." 




Rather embarrasseri b\- his suggestion that 
there was anything to thank them for, Leslie led 
him through the house to the veranda facing the 
ocean. Here Aunt Marcia sat, wrapped to the 
eyes, enjoying the late October sunshine, the 

of course, whom it could belong to, and we were 
just wild to get it open and see what was in it. 
When we could n't manage that, we hid it away 
in the safest place we could think of, to wait for 
what would happen. I 'm afraid we did n't make 


rf f f if f siss-ismi ^-^^ mM^'*'" 

*"^ M 


invigorating salt air, and the indescribable beauty 
of the changeful ocean. Leslie had long .since, 
\er>' cautioush' and gradually, rexealed to her 
the story of their adventure at Curlew's Nest. 
So carefully had she done so that any possible 
alarm Miss Marcia might have experienced was 
swallowed uji in wonder at the mar\elous wa\' in 
w hich it had all turned out. 

Leslie now introduced Mr. Ramsay, and they 
all gathered around him as he settled himself to 
enjoy the view. He chatted awhile with Miss 
Marcia, compared notes with her on the effect of 
the climate on her health and his own, then 
turned to the young folks. 

"It is quite useless for me." he began, "to try 
to express my appreciation of all you ]5eople ha\c 
done for Eileen and nnself in the liltic matter <il 
the bronze box." 

"But wc must tell you," interrupted I'hyllis, 
eagerly, "that wc are n't going to sail under any 
false colors! We found that littlebox, — orrather, 
Rdgs here found it 1- and wc did n't have a ncilioii. 

any \-ery desperate hunt for the owner, and when 
we suspected that Eileen might have something 
to do with it, I 'm ashamed to say that we would 
n't gi\c it up to her — at first — because we were 
anno\ed at the wa>- she acted. We did n't under- 
stand, of course, but that does n't excuse it!" 

".Ml that you say may be true," smiled Mr. 
Ram,sa\-, "but that does not alter the fact that 
you delivered it up the moment you disco\ered 
the rightful owner. And Miss Ph>-llis's clever 
little ruse of burying the false box probably saved 
Geoffrey a bad time. For if those fellows 
had n't found something there that night, they 
would certainl>- ha\e made it hot for him. As 
it was. it gained us so much time that Detecti\e 
liarnes had a chance to get my man out of their 
clutches before they had done him any damage, 
though the>- were furious at being duped. The\' 
're all .safely in jail now, and there is nothing 
more to fear from them. Of course the principal 
who hired them is .safe over in China, but he 
(lid n't gain his point — and that 's the main 




thing! As for the letters, I concUided that, after 
all, my ideas as to how to keep them safely were 
out of date, and they have long since been for- 
warded to Washington, in the care of Barnes, and 
are now in the hands of my country's representa- 
tive there. I shall not concern myself any further 
about their security I " 

He put his hand in his pocket and drew out the 
little bronze casket. Then he went on, — 

"This little box has had some strange adven- 
tures in its day, but nothing stranger than the 
one it has just passed through. It has, however, 
something else in it, that I thought might be of 
interest to you, and so I have brought it along 
and will explain about it." He opened the box 
in the same way as Eileen had done and revealed 
to their curious gaze the fragile old bits of paper 
they had seen on that eventful night. He took 
them out, fingered them thoughtfully, and handed 
one to each of the four young folks. 

'There is a strange little adventure connected 
with these that perhaps ^'ou may be interested to 
hear," he continued. "It happened when I was 
passing through the city of Peking, some years 
ago, during their revolution. There was a good 
deal of lawlessness rife at the time, and bands of 
natives were running about, pillaging and looting 
anything they thought it safe to tamper with. 
One day, in one of the open places of the city, 
I happened along just in time to see ten or a 
dozen lawless natives pulling from its pedestal a 
great bronze idol, hideous as they make 'em, that 
had stood there probably for uncounted centuries. 
When the>- got it to the ground, they found it to 
be hollow inside, as most of the really ancient 
ones are, and filled with all manner of articles 
representing the sacrifices that had been made to 
it, through the ages, and placed inside it by their 
priests. These articles included everything from 
real jewels of undoubted value to papier-mache 
imitations of food — a device the Chinese often 
use in sacrificing to the idols. 

"Of course, the mob made an immediate grab 
for the jewels, but it had begun to make my blood 
boil to see them making off with so much unlawful 
booty. So, almost without thinking, I snatched 
out my revolver, placed myself in front of the 
pile, and shouted to them that I would shoot the 
first one who laid a finger on the stuff. And in 
the same breath I sent Geoffrey hurr>-ing to find 
some of the city authorities to come and rescue 
what would probably be some thousands of 
dollars' worth of gems. 

"Fortunately, I was armed with an effective 
weapon and they were not. So I managed to 
hold the fort till Geoffrey returned with the 
authorities, and on .seeing them, the mob promptly 
melted awa)-. The mandarin wanted to present 

me with some of the jewels, in gratitude for my 
.services, but I had no wish for them and only 
asked permission to take with me a few of these 
little scraps of paper, which had been among the 
medley of articles in the idol's interior. Of 
course the>' assented, deeming me, no doubt, a 
ver\' stupid 'foreign devil' to be so easily satisfied! 
I ha\e carried them about with me for several 
>ears, and now I am going to give them to ynii 
\oung folks — one to each of you, as a little token 
of my gratitude for your invaluable help!" 

He sat back in his chair, smiling benignU . while 
he watched the bewilderment on all their faces. 
Ted, Phyllis, and Leslie were striving to hide 
this under a polite assumption of intense grati- 
tude, though they were a bit puzzled as to why he 
should choose them, of all people, who had no very- 
profound interest in such things, as recipients of 
this special gift. But his own granddaughter was 
under less compulsion to assume what she did not 

"This is awfulh' good of you. Granddaddyl" 
she cried, "but I don't honestly see what the big 
idea is! I think that stor>- of yours was ripping, 
but I don't exacth' know what to do with this 
little bit of paper. It seems so old and frail, too, 
that I 'm almost afraid a breath will blow it to 
pieces. I realK- think it will be safer in your 

He was still smiling indulgently. "I suspected 
that the outspoken Eileen would voice the general 
opinion of this gift! I don't mind it in the least, 
and I don't blame you a bit for feeling a trifle 
bewildered about the matter. But I have n't 
told you the whole stor\- yet. To continue. .As 
I said before, I carried these bits of paper around 
with me for a number of years, simply because they 
reminded me of my little adventure. Then, one 
day early this past summer, on the steamer com- 
ing across the Pacific, I chanced to meet a man 
connected with the British Museum, whom I soon 
discovered to be one of the principal experts on 
Chinese antiquities. .\nd it occurred to me to 
show him these bits of paper and ask if he could 
imagine what they were. He examined them 
carefully and then came to me in great delight, 
declaring that the\' certainly were, beyond a 
shadow of doubt, the oldest existing specimens of 
Chinese paper money! 

".■\nd he added, moreover, that the British 
Museum had no specimens in its possession as old 
as these, and declared that he believed the au- 
thorities would be delighted to buy them, prob- 
ably for three or four hundred pounds apiece!" 

The listening four gasped and stared at him 
incredulously, but he went on undisturbed. "I 
said I would think the matter over and decide 
when 1 reached England. But meantime, for 




reasons which I have already enlarged upon, I 
have decided instead to give them to you, as a 
little testimonial of my deep gratitude. If, by 
any chance, you should decide that you would 
prefer to have the money, I will attempt to negoti- 
ate the sale for you when I reach London and — " 

He got no farther for, with a whoop of joy, Ted 
sprangforward and handed his bit toMr. Ramsay; 
the others followed his example, striving inade- 
quately to express their wonder and delight. 

But he interrupted them, smilingly. "I should 
like to inquire what form of investment each one 
of you expects to make with the sum you receive? 
Don't think me too inquisitive, please. It 's 
just an old man's curiosity!" 

"I 've decided already!" cried Eileen. "I 'm 
going to spend mine on another trip over here in 
the spring to \'isit you girls, and I 'm going to 
bring Mother with me. I would n't have got 
here this time if it had n't been for Grandfather, 
for Daddy simply put his foot down and said he 
could n't afford it. And next year Grandfather 
may be in Timbuctoo, and I would n't have a 
chance. But I 've just got to see you all again 
soon, for you 're the best friends I ever made." 

"And I .'m going to save mine for some extra 
expensive courses in chemical engineering in 
college that I never supposed I could afford to 
take," declared Ted. "I expected I 'd have to 
go into business after I graduated, for a year or 
two, till I earned enough, but now I can go on." 

"Of course, 1 '11 get my music now," cried 
Phyllis, "and I 'in the happiest girl alive!" 

"Now little Ralph will have his chance to be 
strong and well, like other boys," murmured 
Leslie, tears of joy standing in her eyes. 

Then, to ease the tension of the almost too 
happy strain, Mr. Ramsay continued: 

"But there is another member of this party 
that it would not do to forget!" He drew from 
his pocket a handsome leather-and-silver dog- 
collar, called Rags over to him, and, as the dog 
ambled up, gravely addressed him: 

"Ivindly accept this token of my immense 
gratitude and allow me to clasp it about your 
neck!" Rags submitted gravely while his old 
collar was removed and the new one put in place, 
and then began to make frantic efforts to get it 
off over his head! Mr. Ramsay only laughed and 
held up a bank-note, adding: 

"I realize that you do not entirely appreciate 
this gift at present. In fact, I sympathize with 
you in thinking it a decided nuisance! But here 
is something else that may soothe your sorrow — ■ 
a five-dollar bill, to be devoted exclusively to the 
purchase of luscious steaks, tender chops, and 
juicy bones for your solitary delectation!" 

Amid the general laughter that followed, he 
added: ".\nd now, may I ask that you escort me 
over to the veranda of Curlew's Nest? I have a 
great desire to walk up and down on that porch 
for a few moments and think of all the strange 
adventures of that delightful little bungalow!" 

And, accompanied by Rags, still striving madly 
to scrape off his new collar by rubbing it in the 
sand, they escorted their guest to Curlew's Nestl 




To-DAV the merr\' rain came down 

.\slant the misty air; 
With long, cool fingers washed nu' face 

And wet ni\' braided hair. 

I watched it fill the ditches up 

And s|)atter in the pool, 
As slowly through the silvery shower 

I homeward trudged from school. 

It sang a busy, humming song 
To greet the fragment grass, 

And tinkled liny raindrop times 
To please a little lass. 






!i-. "•:■/« 


.-1 Girl-Scoul Canzonet 

Oh. who will go a-gips\ iiig. a-gipsyiiig with me? 
Where happy roads are luring and \alleys fair to see, 
C.reen hills and white roads that lead to Arcady; 
Who will go a-gips)ing, a-gipsying with me? 

A comrade! a comrade! one who will think as I; 
One who lo\es the greenwood, the hills that tower high; 
A maid who loves the lacing boughs under a starry sky; 
A comrade! a comrade! one who will think as I. 

Oh, who will go a-gipsying? the morning 's wide and blue; 

It calls me; the white roads are calling, calling too. 

There 's a lure in the west wind, it thrills me through and through : 

I listen to its calling, O morning wide and blue ! 

(Green hills and white roads that lead to Arcady) 

Who will go a-gips>ing, a-gips>ing with me? 



The meadow is a gown of green. 

Sing ho, for grasses short and tall ! 
The meadow is a gown of grefen — 
A gown of sunn>', silken sheen, 
And rich as that of any queen. 

Sing ho, the gown of green, O! 
The little brook 's a ribbon gay. 

Sing ho, the winding, twisting stream! 
The little brook 's a ribbon gay, 
The girdle of the gown, I say. 
Around, about it loops away — 

Sing ho, the gown of green, O! 

The daisies are the biiUoiis round. 

Sing ho, for yellow ones and while! 
The daisies are the buttons round. 
And never in straight rows they 're found, 
But, hit or miss, they dot the ground. 

Sing ho, the gown of green, O ! 
Queen Anne's lace is the trimming while. 

Sing ho, for fluff>', soft rosettes! 
yueen Anne's lace is the trimming white. 
It makes the gown a lovely sight, 
Because it adds a touch so light. 

Sing ho, the gown of green, O! 

Blanche Elizabeth Wade. 





A SECOND week slipped by. The entire parU' was 
discouraged over the scarcity of armadillos. The 
jungle was quartered from morning till sundown. 
It seemed as if the expedition was doomed to 
failure. Except for the single glimpse of one, 
which was accredited to Jack and W'alee, and a 
few old tracks seen by the Indians, the giant 
armadillo appeared to be as extinct as its former 
associate, the giant sloth. 

Paul, Fred, and Wa'na formed a close cor- 
poration — at least the boys did, making Wa'na 
their chief aide — which they called the "Giant- 
Armadillo-or-Bust Corporation," and set out 
"scientifically" to find the secretive "yesi." 
In spite of the pertinacious name of their organ- 
ization and their unremitting eftorts to justify its 
title, they were willing at the end of the second 
week to give up in despair. The time seemed 
approaching when the corporation would pass 
into the hands of a receiver. 

At length came a day when, in the throes of 
desperation, they took a solemn \ow not to re- 
turn without the object of their quest. Jack 
smiled at their fierce earnestness and sa\age 
gestures and bade them be gone with the Indian. 

As every yard of the jungle for se\eral miles 
around had been searched, they decided to walk 
ten miles straight awa\' from camp before deploy- 
ing for the hunt. Their progress was slow, owing 
to the hilly contour of the land, but several hours 
later they entered a country entirely new. 

From the low mountain ridge which they 
could see ten miles to the northward, the foothills 
jutted like promontories into the sea — the sea 
in this case being the jungle. The part\' walked 
through a maze of ridges and gullies which, with- 
out their compasses and the sun, would soon have 
caused them to lose all sense of direction. Even 
Wa'na was troubled by the bewildering labyrinth 
of ravines and marked their trail with special 

Slightly fatigued by the continual mounting 
and descending, ihey rested on a large rock. The 
forest was as heavy as ever. So far as the hunters 
could see, it was in no way different from that on 
the lower Mazaruni. The\' leaned back ami 
utterly relaxed. 

About fifty feet away lay another stone slab. 
surrounded by sparse undergrowth. The Indian 
had rested his eyes on this for some moments. 

when the boys felt him start and whisper: 
"Watch rock. Somel'ing happen soon!" 

They stared at the smooth slab, but it remained 
as it had been a moment liefore. Both heard a 
peculiar cr\- from the bushes in its \icinity, there 
came a flutter of wings, and a bird about the size 
of a small bantam hen appeared on the stone. 
Its entire body, except for the tip of its tail and 
the black wing primaries, was clothed in rudd\' 
orange, so brilliant that it glowed like fire, and 
its head held a crest of the same color, which 
curved forward, almost covering the short bill. 

It was not the gorgeous bod>- which fascinated 
the watchers, so much as the antics through 
which the bird went. It uttered a strange, gut- 
tural note, bobbed its tail, and commenced to 
dance. Up and down flicked the tail-feathers, 
and out stretched its wings. It scratched at the 
bare rock and jumped straight into the air, to the 
accompaniment of the voices of a dozen others 
which had collected to watch the performance. 
Again and again it repeated its scratching and 
leaping, its jerking and bobbing, then, tiring, it 
hopped to the bushes, while a second took its 

"W hat are they?" whispered Paul. 
"Cock of the rock," replied his chum. "Watch 
'em. Only the males are dancing." 

True enough, the three or l\)ur females, lighter 
and of less brilliant hue than their suitors, took 
no part in the dance, but were satisfied to add 
their cries of encouragement. Unfortunately, at 
this moment Fred sneezed; the birds took fright, 
and disappeared among the tree-tops as fast as 
they could wing their way upward. 

Luck seemed with the hunters that day. for 
half an hour later Wa'na paused beside a brook 
which flowed into a jjalm-grown swamp, ami, 
eagerh' pointing toward the ground, exclaimed: 
"Mowoorima tracks dar!" 

Dashing forward, the boys bent to examine the 
spoor. A single indentation showed, engra\eil 
deeply in the mud. It was as large as one of 
their outspread hands and evidently fresh, the 
water not >et ha\ing finished seeping into it. 
There could be no doubt of its identity; no crea- 
ture could boast of such a fool but tin- giaiii 

C.reatly excited by this find so early in the day, 
the small party separated to hunt. They sought 
the burrow, not the beast itself, for once having 
loimd this, they could be certain the armadillo 
would not be far ofl. Indeed, the chances were 




that the creature would be at home, for its feed- 
ing habits are more than half nocturnal. 

To Paul fell the honor of finding the tunnel, 
but in a strange manner. He had come to a more 
le\el stretch of forest, where there were fewer 
]irojecting rocks and the soil was of a clay-like 
texture. He tramped along, eying the ground 
carefulK', examining the scars cau.sed l)y up- 
rooted trees, and poking into bushy hollows. 
I'resentb' he was aware of the shadow^', graj' 
form of a foxlike thing, which trotted parallel to 
him about a hundred feet distant. Without 
pausing to think, he fired. 

The .inimal, a forest jackal, ga\'e a startled 
\flp, and, with its tail almost dragging on the 
ground, turned and scuttled off. The boy uttered 
an exclamation of chagrin at ha\'ing missed and 
stared after the departing creature. To his 
surprise, it seemed to disappear into the side of a 
low bank a few yards farther on. 

His mind leaped at the thought : could this be 
the hole he was seeking? He rushed to the spot, 
and sure enough, there was the mouth of a .small 
tunnel leading into the hillside! His heart sank; 
il the crab-dog had gone in, the armadillo certainly 
could not be there. 

Several seconds later he was di.sabu.sed of that 
idea, howe\er, for a howl resounded from the 
depths of the earth, and as he leaned o\"er the 
hole, something that whined with fear tore by, 
flinging the dirt in his face as it passed on its mad 
flight . That poor forest, jackal was certainly 
h,i\ing some terrifying experiences that day! 

Much cheered b\' this performance, and not a 
little startled, Paul fired in quick succession 
three shots into the air, which was the signal 
agreerl upon if the burrow was discovered. W'a'na 
appeared as the sound of the last shot died awa\', 
and fi\c miiuites later Fred joined them. 

"Here it is!" shouted the discoverer, dancing 
a few sleijs of a shulifle as he caught sight of the 
IndLiii. "Right here in the bank!" 

Wa'n.i examined the opening and grunted, 
then, pointing to some trampled earth which 
Paul had overlooked, said; 

"!1ar tracks all right. Crab-dog, too." 

I'aul related his experience and the Indian 

"Arnuiflillo, h<' dar in hole. C"rab-dog, he 
much coward and run awax." 

When Fred arrived ihev' investigated the 
immediate neighborhof)d and discovered a secon<l 
opening fift\- feet distant. It was as large as the 
first and had been recently used. Evidently 
these were the only entrances, for a careful M-an h 
revealed no others. 

Satisfied that this was the case, the hunter- 
held a council of war. W'a'na argued that ilie\ 

should return to camp for suital)le iin|)lenients, 
such as shovels and traps for capturing the beast, 
but both boys urged otherwise. 

"By the time we get back to the creek it Ml 
he afternoon," Fred exclaimed, "and then 
Jack '11 wait until to-morrow! In the meantime, 
the old armadillo '11 change its den or be gone 
when we get back here. No; there 's no use 
taking chances. I vote we get after him now." 

In this he was backed up by his chum. 

"Think of the victory we '11 gain over Jack if 
we get one before he does!" was his argument. 

Between them, thcv- finally warmed the In- 
dian to their wa)' of thinking. W'a'na, now that 
he had given in, became as eager as the others. 
Plans were quickly formulated. A fire was to 
be built over the lower hole to permit the smoke, 
caught by an upward draught through the tunnel, 
to enter the den and drive the armadillo frcjni the 
upper entrance. This was agreed to be the most 
sensible, as it was the most rapid, method of get- 
ting at the creature. 

The Indian had never seen a giant armadillo, 
or perhaps he would have suggested amendments 
to the original plan. He had heard them de- 
scribed, and recognized their tracks from a sinii- 
laritv- to those of lesser armadillos, but the beast 
it.self was as new to him as it was to his com- 

In a few minutes a fire blazed before the lower 
entrance; but to their chagrin, the smoke failed 
to enter the burrow as they had expected. From 
Paul came the suggestion that they build an 
awning over the mouth of the tunnel with green 
palm-leaves, and, having smudged the fire down 
with dainp moss, place it under this shelter. Thev 
followed his idea, and presently' were delighted 
to see the fumes drift inward. 

-Ml was excitement. W'a'na staved iie.u- the 
fire, fanning and blowing, while the boys went to 
the other hole. They laid their guns beside them 
and knelt in front of the entrance in order to 
seize the armadillo when it ru.shed forth. It was 
their intention to take the creature alive, if 
I>ossible, so as not to mar its body by a charge of 

"It ought lo be a cinch!" declarcfl hri-rl. au- 
thorilativelv'. "I 've caught lots of the smaller 
ones with my hands. .Xs soon as ihev' feel you 
grabbing lur their tails, I hey curl up like a (lossum 
and |)lav- dead, ^'ou stand in front. Fat, to 
heafl him off, and I 'II grab as he goes by. If he 
gets away, he can't run vcrv' fast, anfl then we '11 
shf)ol him." 

l-'ive mimiles later they saw ihin frills of 
>uu)ke floating from the tunnel. 

"Cet readv !" shcMii<'< 
in a niiinite!" 

'He 'II be out 




At thai instant the armadillo did come out ! 

it came with a rush, and the unfortunate Paul 
was howled o\er as if struck b>' an express-train. 
Fred made an ineffectual grasp at the tail and 
sprawled full upon the back of the antediluvian 
beast. He was dragged along for twent\- feet 
and finally was scraped off by a thicket of thorn\ 
bushes, aided by a low running vine which caught 
under his throat. Before either hunter could 
regain his scattered senses the creature had dis- 

"I thought he ran like a turtle and i)layfd 
possum when you touched him!" moaned Paul, 
reproachfully, rolling to a sitting position and 
gingerly rubbing his bruises. 

"He did n't act like most armadillos!" Fred 
lamented from his thicket. "Ouch! He almost 
wrecked me!" 

He painfully extracted himself and advanced 
toward his friend. His shirt was torn in a do/en 
places, his breeches had a huge rent down one 
leg, and his freckled face bore a three-inch scratch 
where a thorn had grazed it. Altogether he was a 
ver>' woebegone and dilapidated bit of humanit>-. 

The disgruntled hunters turned toward camp 
with bitterness in their hearts. All chance of 
again seeing the armadillo was gone; it would 
never return to the den where it had recei\ed 
.such rough treatment. Perhaps it would be 
weeks before they had another such chance. 
The Giant-Armadillo-or-Bust Corporation had 
suffered another serious setback. What rotten 



Graduallv the forest grew dark. .\ storm was 
brewing. The hunters, redoubling their speed, 
pressed forward, but within ten minutes found it 
necessary to crouch beneath projecting roots and 
fallen logs to escape the deluge. 

The storm struck. 

First fell a few enormous drops, then the tree- 
tops swung forward through an arc of many 
degrees, and were held in that position for a full 
minute by the rush of the elements. The air 
became full of flying leaves; entire branches were 
torn off and crashed downward; trunks swayed 
and creaked; roots groaned painfulh' and tugged 
against the ground which held them. The down- 
pour came and changed the forest into a horde 
of twisting, struggling, unshapely monsters. It 
became impossible to see be\'ond a few \ards. 

The tree behind which Paul crouched ga\e a 
sudden lurch. He felt the earth quiver and saw 
a large root part at the surface of the ground. 
Leaping aside, he was barely in time to escape 

being crushed b\ its trunk as it lunged over. 
\\ ana and Fred had hidden some distance awav 
to the windward and were safe. 

.\fter the first prolonged gust the wind passed 
on. The trees straightened and the jungle was 
shaken only b\' the roar of the deluge. This died 
down in time to a gentle drizzle, then ceased 
altogether; but the leaves continued dripping 
for man\ minutes. 

More despondent than e\er. the company 
continued its journey toward camp. E\en the 
elements had turned against them. And as the>' 
soon found out. there was worse to come. 

Wa'na was advancing oxer the vague trail of 
broken twigs which they had left that morning, 
when the boys saw him suddenh' raise his gun 
and fire. .\t the same instant, both caught sight 
of a large si)otted cat, a jaguar, trot ting off through 
the undergrowth. As the Indian fired, the cat 
ga\e a snarl and sprang behind the base of a tree. 

ImmediateK all three si)read out, Wa'na in one 
direction and the two hoys in another, to sur- 
round the tree. The\ advanced with extreme 
caution, watching for the .slightest movement of 
bushes and with their guns ready for instant use. 
The tree was reached, but the jaguar was gone. 

The Indian explored the ground closely and at 
length discoxered a droj) of blood. .A second la\' 
a few feet distant, showing the beast had gone 
in that direction. 

Following this trail was an casx matter, and 
a hundred yards farther on the> halted before a 
dense tangle of dead brush and \ines. 

"Tiger, me t'iiik he in dar," whispered Wa'na. 
"You sta> here. Me go see." 

He had hardK coxered twentx feet when lu- 
stopped xvith a xell and fired both barrels of his 
gun. Uttering another shout for them to look 
out, he leaped to one side as a great hod> launched 
itself from the bushes. As quick as thought, the 
boys fired, then jumped for safety. 

The cat Tell exacth' upon the spot where the 
Indian had been, but that wary indixidual, after 
his lightning leap, had crawled awax on all fours. 
The wounded jaguar swaxed unsteadiK- for a few 
seconds, then, catching sight ol the creeping 
figure but half a dozen feet away, started toward 
it, snarling. Tin- Indian increased his speed and 
made an attein|U to regain his feet, but tripjied 
and went down again. 

The inniiense jaguar was almost upon him, 
when both Fred and Paul rushed forward and 
l)oured their remaining barrels into the beast. 
There came a ihroatx' sigh, and the cat slumped 
oxer on its side with a ragged gap in its head and 
a large hole behind its shoulder. 

"Wow. we 'xe got a jaguar anx'way!" Fred 
shouted, when ihcx had made sure the beast xvas 




"BEFORE EITHER HINTFR riHIll R1-(.MN HI-- SCATTEKKIl MNsI'^ IHI' AKM \l HI l.l i r>l-.Al'M',AKl,ll 

dead. "Thit^ hat^ ti'l been such a bad da\ , after 
all I Who wants an old armadillo if he can get a 
rat like that. 1 'd like to know?" 

"That 's what I say." chimed in his gleeful 
rhum. "No use bothering about such things as 
giant armadillos when there are jaguars around. 
Whew! 1 'ni shaking yet!" 

"How about it. W'a'na.-' It looks prett\ good, 
does n't it?" Fred had placed one foot on the 
body and struck a pose. "Wish we had a cam- 

The Indian said nothing, bul remained on the 
ground where he had been all the time and 
rubbed his left ankle. 

"What 's the matter, W'a'na?" Paul asked, 
suddenly noticing the action. The Indian 
shrugged his shoulders and reijlied ; 

"Me hurt ankle. No can walk. Wa'na 
I'anks niarsters fof saving life. W'a'na. he sta\ 
here by tiger and niarsters go back to cainp In 
get help." 

"Not if we know il. we wont!" Iiolh hoys 
shouted together. "W hal 's the matter with the 
ankle. anywa\'?" 

An examination showed thai il was either 
badly sprained or broken: owing lo iheir inex- 
perience they were unable to determine which. 
But whatever the iniur\- was. the Indian could 

not walk. It was out ot the question for him to a crutch that afternoon — it would have been 
dark before he could have hobbled a mile through 
that uneven country. There was nothing to do 
but wait for the morrow. 

Somewhat dashed in spirits. the> prepared a 
camp. A quantity of palm-lea\es had been 
collected and a .shelter partially constructed when 
Kred suddenly paused in his work to sa\'; 

"I 'd forgotten all about Jack. He '11 be 
worried to death if we don't turn up to-night. 
Why don't you trot on back to ( aiup. Fat, to 
let 'em know what the troubl<' is? 1 '11 stay here 
with W a'na." 

"Nothing doing! I 'II sta\" and \ou go. Jack 
ought lo be warned, all right." 

Inunediatel\- followed a discussion in which 
phrases like "You go," "I 'd like to stay," "Oh, 
the trail '11 be eas\- enough to follow," "It 's not 
like that at all." predominated. The Indian 
listened with a smile on his face. Finally he 
suggested, "You draw long stick for it." 

"That 'sa good idea!" declared I'i'chI. "We'll 
inalch for il ! How about il, \-a\'" lie drew 
a coin from his pocket and tossed il in the air. 
"Heads >-ou go, tails I go." 

Heads came uppermost and I'aiil pr(^pared to 




"I '11 be back the first thing in the morning." 
he said. "We '11 bring a hammock and carr> 
Wa'na back." 

"Be careful to follow those broken twigs," 
his friend shouted after him. "and be sure to 
bring plent>' of men to carr\ that hammock." 

But by noon the next da\" neither Paul nor 
the hammock had appeared! 



Toward sundown the eider Milton began to 
grow imeasy. Wa'na and the boys should have 
returned an hour before. Now there were onl\ 
a few minutes left of daylight; and if they did 
not arrive by the fall of darkness, he knew he 
would not see them that night. 

Darkness arri\ed and no hunters returned. 

Jack consoled himself with the thought that 
Wa'na was with them, and. with the determina- 
tion not to worry, made ready for the night. He 
had not taken seriously their declaration not to 
return without an armadillo, but they might 
have been more in earnest than he thought. 

It had been a disappointing day for him, too. 
No further sign of the armadillo he had glimpsed 
had been forthcoming. XearK- two weeks had 
passed since their arri\'al, and the fulfilment of 
their quest was as far off as e\er. .\nd now the 
hoys were gone. He could not den\' that he was 
troubled about them, though perhaps the\' had 
only misjudged the distance back to camp and 
had fjeen overtaken b\ darkneas. Mid-morning 
would probabK- find them back. 

But on the following day. noon came without 
their return, jack was badly worried ; something 
serious had occurred, of that he was sure. 

When he had made up his mind that this was 
the case he dispatched the two remaining Indians 
to search, and himself set out alone. leaxing the 
Bovianders in charge of the camp. 1 1 was nearK' 
three o'clock when he struck the train of broken 
twigs and met Walee on the same errand. The>' 
hurried on together, for to the Indian that trail 
was simple reading. 

.■\n hour later they came upon Kred and Wa'na. 
t he latter hobbling on a rude crutch manufactured 
Irom the fork of a sapling. Over the shoulder 
of the boy was slung the hide of the jaguar. 

"Well, you 're fine ones!" shouted the small 
chap, reproachfully, when he caught sight of his 
brother. "Where 's that hammock? Here you 
've tnade Wa'na walk pretty near five miles on 
his crippled foot !" 

"What are you talking about, P'red? What 
hammock do \ou mean? What "s the matter 
with Wa'na?" ' 

"He 's in pretty bad shape, thanks to you!" 

"Here, here; let 's get to the bottom of this. 
What happened? W"here 's Paul?" 

"Did n't he get hack to camp?" P'red de- 
manded, slightly taken aback b\ this question. 
"Did n't he tell you to bring a hammock? Where 
is he.' " 

"I 'm sure I don't know," replied his brother. 
"We ha\e n't seen him since you left yesterda>' 
morning. Xow tell me what happened." 

But Fred ignored this request and exclaimed: 

"Then he 's lost! He left us yesterday after- 
noon to tell you where we were. Are you sure 
you have n't seen him. Jack?" 

His \oice was pleading, and he looked badly 
frightened. Upon receixing a negati\e answer, 
he shouted desperately: 

"Come on! I 'm goin' to hunt for him! Come 
on; we 've got to hurn,- !" 

He flung the jaguar skin into the bushes and 
started off. Jack sprang after him and grasped 
his arm, shaking him \igorously to bring him to 
his senses. 

"Steady, old chap," he said quietly to the 
excited boy: "let 's talk this over first and not 
start off on a wild-goose chase. We '11 find Fat, 
don't worr>- about that. Xow let 's have it all." 

W HEN Paul left the others building a camp, he 
retraced his way to the spot where the\' had first 
seen the jaguar. He easily picked up their broken 
trail where it had been left, and followed the 
line of bent twigs for a mile. Here the path be- 
came extremely winding, owing to the rugge<l 
nature of the countr>\ and he had much troiihli- 
111 keep to its twists and turns. Here, too, the 
marking became \ague: the Indian had blazed 
(inl\ the angles, just sufficient for his own shari> 
eyes to recognize the wa\ . 

Hastening along as rapidly as he could in 
order to reach cam|) before nightfall, the boy 
suddenly discovered that he had tnissed one of 
the turns. For the past hundred yards not a 
single misplaced twig had caught his eye. Un- 
troubled h\- this he faced about and returned 
over the route he imagined he had come; it was 
i>nl>- a slight mistake. 

But two hundred yards in (hat direction failed 
\o bring him back to the path. Evidently he 
had recrossed it. Turning once more, he re- 
traced his steps, onU' to become con\inced a few 
minutes later that the trail was lost. Still 
imdaiinted, he searched his pockets for his com- 
l)ass. If he could not use the path back to camp, 
he could at least strike the creek higher up and 
follow it down. 

Something like an electric shock thrilled through 
his body. Where wiis that compassf It had 


nu\ .iiiN ri-.Ks i\ i)Kmi;kak\ 


been in hi> pocket when they stalled. Perhaps 
it was in the other one. .A search pro\ed it was 
not there. He might lia\e made a mistake. 
.Again he hunted through his clothing, turning 
the pockets inside out, but the compass was gone! 

The sun! Perhaps he could use that. But 
when he looked skyward he disco\ered the orb 
was blotted out by a dense bank of clouds. 

Paul was frightened now. The trail was his 
last remaining hope. He raced back frantically, 
and then around in a big circle, but the broken 
bushes still eluded him. Determined not to 
give way to panic, he seated himself on a log. 
The sun mi^ht come out from behind those clouds. 

Ten minutes later he was on his feet again, 
glancing wildly about — he felt sure he had been 
seated an htuir. and the cloud-bank was heavier 
than e\er. It had spread over the whole ski,-. 

-At last the boy gave way to the panic which 
he had dreaded. He must find the trail, and 
find it quickly! Away he dashed, running this 
time, scarcely' noting where he went. A quarter 
of a mile farther on he turned abruptly to the 
left, thinking in a confused way that the new 
direction might lead him to it. If he had only 
known it, he had been running in a circle, and the 
new turn had set him on the path directly away 
from the trail. But at that time he was too 
bewildered to think clearly about anything. 

A half-hour of running left him lying exhausted 
on a rock where he had fallen. He was in a kind 
of coma of despair. As his breath returned, 
howe\er, so was his reason restored. He stared 
about him in amazement. Three miles must 
have been covered in that half-hour of madness, 
and he had entered an entirely difterent counlr>'. 
He was still in the jungle, but everyw-here were 
rocks, small ones and big ones, some as large as 
a house. He stood in a maze of steep gullies and 
rugged ra\ines, some of which were choked with 
undergrowth and running vines, impossible to 
penetrate. He was in the heart of the foothills. 

The rocks were alive with lizards, which scam- 
pered about the lichened surfaces or basked in tin- 
waning beams of the sun, which, ha\ing broken 
through its wall of cloud, lingered low in the west, 
close to the tree-tops The reptiles were of 
many colors, but chiefly combinations of blue 
and green, and e\en purple. Paul noticed one 
which was pure pea-green, with \ertical shields 
rising from the ridge of its back. It scuttled off 
at the approach of a larger memlier of the .same 
family, a giant iguana. This was a small one 
of its kind, hardly three feet long, dark gra\ , 
spotted with white and green, and with the same 
upright plates on its back. 

The boy gave scant thought to the lizards. 
He was more interested in his own predicament. 

He realized that llir rani|) la> somewhere directly 
beneath the sinking sun, and started off in that 

The going was extremeh' rough and arduous 
and caused him to wonder how he had penetrated 
that far without a broken neck. The way w'as 
lull of pitfalls, and several times he paused 
abrupth' to prevent a tumble down a steep bank 
or o\er some sheer drop of twenty feet. The 
walls of the ravine hid the sun from \icw and 
caused him considerable extra labor. Se^■eral 
times he was compelled to climb their rough 
sides to obtain his bearings and then drop back 
to continue his march. 

It was discouraging work and \ery slow. Pres- 
ently he ga\e it up as a bad job and prepared to 
camp lor the night. The sun had sunk below 
the trees. 

As Paul made up his mind to halt,' his ear 
caught a low grinit resembling the hollow boom 
of a bass-drum. The sound changed to a chick, 
chick, repeated slowly man>- times. He smiled 
to himself. Trumpeters! Here at any rate was 
meat for his supper. 

Ad\ancing cautiously, he caught sight of se\'- 
eral birds mo\ing on the ground. Mere forms 
they were, for their purples and grays blended 
so with the shadows that only their outlines 
could be seen as they stalked past on their thin, 
stiltlike legs. The next instant one fell before 
his gun and the others flew .squawking and rum- 
bling into the trees, where the\' hid themselves 
in the upper branches. 

After building a rough shelter against a con- 
\enient rock, he examined his trophy. Its body 
was about the size of a white Leghorn hen, but 
there the resemblance stopped. The small head 
was mounted on a long, thin neck, such as is 
found on a curlew, but with a short bill. The 
legs were long and heron-like, causing the trum- 
]jeter to stand about eighteen inches above the 
groimd. Though purely a forest-li\ing bird, 
with no lo\e for the marshes or water, it is really 
an aberrant stork. 

That evening the lost bo\ roasted the truui- 
[jeter over a fire and pronounced it excellent. As 
he had no blanket, he accumulated a large store 
of wood against the coolness of the night, and 
la> down on his bed of leaves. Presently, tired 
as he was, he slept. 

He was awakened some hours later b>' the 
baling of a hound close by. Hurriedh' tossing 
•some wood on the fire, he seized his gun and 
crouched b\ the blaze. 

Again came the resonant sound, and was echoed 
from all abotit him. Paul set his jaws together 
and inade ready for the attack. Evidently a full 
pack was running and would be upon him directl)-. 


Hl)^ HrxrKKs in dkmi-.kaka 

More fuel was added to the blaze, causing the 
light to spread many yards through the jungle. 
He could hear the hissing of bats and the swishing 
of their wings outside the circle of light, but was 
bothered little b\ them. From far off came a 
muffled serenade by howlers. But it was the 
wild echoes around him which caused the roots 
of his hair to tingle. 

The baying continued, but drew no closer. 
He was relie\"ed b>' this, but kept an acti\e watch. 

Suddenly a howl came from o\erhead! What 
was thali' The hounds up a tree? Impossible! 
Perhaps it came from the top of the rock. No; 
it was in that sajjling by the fire. 

He drew a sigh of relief. It could n't be dogs 
if that was the case. But they must be some 
other kind of terrible animal, cats probably! 
That was even worse. 

For an hour the noise continued, sometimes 
approaching, sometimes receding, all but the 
animals in the sapling, and they maintained a 
continuous uproar. 

Emboldened at length by their e\ident fear of 
the fire, Paul determined to discover what the>- 
were. He cast another armful of wood on the 
blaze, and, when that had ignited well, advanced 
toward the sapling, holding his gun read> . 

To his astonishment, there was nothing in the 
little tree. He could see its entire outline in the 
firelight. There was no dark mass crouching 
among its small branches, and no yellow eyes 
gleamed down at him. But the creature was 
there; he could hear it! 

With a hesitating moxement he grasped a low 
Ijranch and drew the sapling down. .\s its leaf>- 
head neared the ground, a tiny object fell from 
it and hopped toward the fire. An instant later 
he held it in his hands. It was a frog! 

By nine o'clock the sun had risen high enough for 
Paul to use it again as a guide. Refreshed b\' his 
sleep, he set forth in high spirits. It would not 
take long to reach camp now. 

An hour of tra\el brought him to a stream 
down which he blitheh turned. This, no doubt, 
would lead him to the creek and thence to the 
bateau. He would explain how matters stood 
with Fred and the crippled Indian, and a ham- 
mock would be sent at once. 

The sun crept slowly to its meridian and 
Ijassed toward the west. Doubts commenced to 
enter the boy's mind. Wh>' had he not come to 
the creek? Surely he had tra\eled far enough. 
Moreover, he was hungr>-. Two hours more of 
the stream and he sat down, disheartened. There 
could be no dodging the question now; the brook 
did not lead to the creek! 

(To be 

Paul was disma\ed, but not panic-stricken as 
on the previous day. He apparently was lost 
be>ond reco\er>-, but took the matter philosophic- 
allj-, and cast about for wa>s to extricate him- 
self. For the past five hours his direction had 
been about due west. Why he had not come 
upon the creek, which ran north and south, he 
could not understand. But the fact remained 
that he had not; and now what was he to do? 

Of a certainty- the camp was aroused by this 
time and all were searching for the missing hun- 
ters. He had little worr\- concerning the welfare 
of P'red and his companion; Jack or one of the 
Indians would pick up Wa'na's trail and soon 
locate them. .As for himself it was a different 
matter; he had left no trail. But why had he 

The bo\' snapped his fingers in \exation with 
himself. If he had blazed his wa\' as he came, 
line of the Indians sooner or later was bound to 
ha\e run across it. His mind was made up. He 
would remain where he was, build himself a camp, 
and run trails out in sexeral directions on the 
chance that the>' would be discovered b>- the 

-An accounting of his ammunition showed that 
he still had rwehe cartridges left, sufficient to 
last several days. He had matches and a hunt- 
ing-knife. So it was with a comparati\ely light 
heart that he constructed a shelter in a cleared 
space on the bank of the stream. 

When that was completed, it was nearh' four 
o'clock, and he felt more hungry" than ever. His 
last meal had consisted of a meager breakfast 
on the remnants of the trumpeter. A hunt for 
food was in order, and he set out with the idea 
of walking for an hour directh away from camp, 
.ind then back o\er the same trail. As ma>' be 
judged, his path was closely marked e\er>- few- 
feet with broken twigs and uprooted bushes. He 
could take no chances of getting lost again. 

•As fortune would ha\e it, he saw no game 
worthy of his limited supply of ammunition until 
the return journe\ . He was passing beneath a 
tree hea\il\ drajied with fig- vines, when a loud 
I'oar, like the bellow of a bull, greeted him trom 
its branches. HastiK' looking up, he was greeted 
by a strange sight. Two male howling monkeys 
were in the throes of battle on a lower limb. 

Fascinated, Paul watched them for the space 
of fi\e minutes. Then hunger recalled him to 
action, and not waiting to .see the outcome of the 
battle, he fired. 

One of the combatants fell, and staggering un- 
der its weight, Paul soon reached his camp. That 
night he tasted roast monke>' for the first time 
and enjoyed its sweetish flavor. 



Early one morning in our house in Jamaica I 
was awakened by a loud "Meow! meozv!" I looked 
out of my window. There, on the tall tree which 
grows in the back yard, was a cat. 

I left for college and thought nothing about it. 
When I returned, howexer, 
the tree was surrounded b\ 
all of the women of the neigh 
borhood, who were tr\ing to 
lure the cat down with pan^ 
of milk and \ain cries of 
"Kitty, kitty!" And at in- 
tervals came that loud wail, 
"Meow! vieow'!" 

Three da>'s of suffering 
passed. Finally. I was chosen 
to go to the authorities and 
have them bring down thai 
cat. I went to the societj- 
with the long name — the So- 
ciety for the Pre\ention of 
Cruelty to Animals. .After I 
had told my story, the official 
said, "Fill out this form in 
triplicate." It was a \'er\- 
long form, but I patientb' 
filled it out. 

Then he asked, "Has it affected your nerves?" 

"Yes, it 's afTected the ners'es of the whole 

"Then you ha\-e come to the wrong place. Go 
to the board of health." 

I went to the board of health. Again I was 
asked if my nerves had been affected. 

"Well, call it that, if you want to; anything to 
get the cat down." 


"Fill out this form in duplicate, then take one 
coin- to the fire department and they '11 send over 
a ukin with a ladder." 

'I'hen I betook myself to a fire department 

station. The first man to whom I gave my paper 

looked at it from all sides and 

then handed it over to his 


"Oh," he said, "you 've 
made a mistake. You should 
take this to the — th precinct 
police station." 

I went to the — th precinct 
police station. They told 
nie that I must go to the .sta- 
tion of niy own precinct, two 
miles away. I went there. 
After I had filled out another 
form, the)" said they would 
send o%er a workman. 

Three hours later a great 
liig burly Irishman arrived 
with a ladder and a pistol 
,ind said the police had sent 
him over to shoot the cat. 
That was n't what I wanted, 
but the cat had better be 
.shot than die of starvation. I showed the Irish- 
man into the back yard. 

He placed his ladder against the tree and 
was about to mount when he saw that the cat 
was black. 

"Begorra." he .said, "if I kill that cat, it 'II 
haunt me for seven years." I was in despair. 

Just then the cat slowK- walked down the tree 
and disappeared. 

FAwarH Rocliie Hardy. 



.Above the busy world I go. 
My wings flash in the sun, 

The cross-wires whistle in the breeze— 
My plane and I are one. 

\\ e pass a home-bound flock of geese- 

They swerve to let us by ; 
We laugh to see men toil below, 

My sturdy "ship" and I. 

In all the seasons of the year 
We frisk about the sk>^way; 

While man runs out his meager race 
Relow. on dusty highway. 

Up, U[), m\ good liird soars aloft! 

For altitude she 's frantic! 
V\'hile in the distance far I see 

The heaving old .Atlantic. 

AboN-e the bus>- world I '11 go, 

,A daring race I '11 run. 
Till the grim Reaper calls to me, 

My plane and I are one. 



"George Usher! How many times must f tell 
you to stop that ninurnfiil whistle? You will 
drive me insane!" 

"Oh, Mother, can't I even whistle? I can't 
have a wheel; I can't have an\thing!" 

"Don't say that, son. Father and I tr>- \ery 
hard to give you all we can. The necessities cost 
so much nowadays that we have \ery little left 
to buy such things, much as we should like to do 

"Dad had a wheel when he was my age." 

"I know it, son." said Mrs. Usher, rubbing her 
hand through his tousled hair. "I wish with all 
my heart that \ou could have one, too, but I don't 
see how you can. Did >ou fill the wood-box?" 

"Yes, Mother." 

(ieorge ran out of the house and threw himself 
on the ground beneath the big pippin-tree, back 
of the house. Tears of disappointment welled 
up in his eyes in spite of all he could do. His 
heart had been set on a brand-new blue "byke" 
that stood in the window of the hardware store. 
It was a jierfect beauty, with its motor-cycle 
handle-bars, its strijjped mud-guards, an electric 
headlight, and a baggage-carrier in the rear. 
Father said that the fifty dollars it cost was more 
than he could afford. If only George could earn 
the mone\- himself! But it did seem like a great 
deal when you thought of earning it. 

George had no appetite for supper, but Mother 
shook her head when Father was about to ques- 
tion him. Uncle John, his mother's brother, 
dropped in to see them in the evening, as he 
wanted to talk business with Mr. Usher. George 
-sat in one corner of the liNnng-room with his 
history before him, but his mind was on the win- 
dow of the hardware store. 

"What was the best business proposition \ou 
ever had, John?" Mr. Usher asked after awhile. 

Uncle John laughed. "The very best was when 
I was George's age." 

George looked up all attention on hearing his 
name mentioned. 

"We had a small chicken-house in the back 
>ard, but no chickens. One da\- I asked Father if 
I might hax'e some, and he agreed. That was my 
first and best venture, for 1 could n't lose. Father 
bought the chickens, paid for the feed, jiaid me 
for the eggs, and I ate them. Now xou can't 
beat that, can you?" 

"No, I can't," laughed Mr. Usher; "liut did n't 
your father soon tire of that?" 

"Yes — he did. But not until after 1 was well 

started. Then I was able to buy my own feed 
with what I recei\ed from the eggs and chickens 
1 sold. I took all the extra ones to the store. 1 
made real mone\" from them. E\'ery week 1 
put a little more in my bank, and eggs were cheap 
in those days, too." 

"Dad, may I keep chickens?" George broke 
in, all excitement. "We have a place for them, 
and I '11 take care of them and tend the garden, 
too. You '11 never have to show me the weeds, 
either, if only you '11 let me keep chickens." 

"We 11 see, son. It means a great deal of work, 
and we must n't start something we are not go- 
ing to finish. I '11 let you know next Monday, 

George knew what his father said was final ; and 
although he was too excited for sleep that night, 
he did n't mention the subject again. On Satur- 
day, however, he spent most of the day in the 
chicken-house, cleaning and scrubbing and white- 

When he came home from school on Monday, 
his father met him at the gate. 

"Come out back, son," he said, leading the way 
to the little house. He opened the door, and 
there, scratching away in the straw, were ten of 
the purest white, white-Leghorn pullets you ever 
saw. George was beside himself with delight. 

"Oh, Dad, thank >-ou ever so nnich! Oh. 
Mother!" he called. 

But his mother was right behind him and an- 
swered, "Come and see what we have in the 

He ran on ahead. As he opened the kitchen 
door the rheep-cheep-cheep that greeted him told 
him that bab\- chicks were there. Sure enough, 
in a big cardboard carton behind the stove were 
an even hundred flutT\- little yellow balls. He 
was speechless with excitement; but when Father 
opened the book of instructions for the amatciu' 
poultry man, which had been sent by the hatchcr\- 
from which the chicks had been bought, George 
turned to look over his father's shoulder. -As 
they studied the book together, it was hard to 
decide which was the bigger boy, and the mother 
was as interested as they. 

Ho\^ers for the youngsters were easily and 
quickh- inadc from cheese-boxes b>' cutting a 
little door at the bottom, so that they might run 
in and out. Three nails were driven in the side 
of each box about three inches from the bottont. 
and wire hoops were made to lit the inside of the 
box and rest on these nails. 





"Now, Mother, if you will sew some old fiaimel 
oil the hoops for us, so that it will drop down on 
the backs of the little fellows, we will keeji them 
snug and warm." 

"Will that keep them warm, Father?" 

"Yes. The heat of their bodies against each 
other will be enough, for we will bring them into 
the kitchen at night." 

George did not need to be called in' the morning. 
He was the first one up, and glad indeed to find 
that the chicks had passed the night successfulK'. 
.After breakfast he gave them some hard-boiled 
egg, chopped fine, and bread-crumbs, and pleut\ 
of sour milk to drink. It was a joy to watch the 
little fellows ta|) away at the food and stand 
around the saucers of milk, throwing their little 
heads far back as they drank. As it was best to 
feed them every three hours, Mother volunteered 
to tend them while Cieorge was at school. I 
reall^' think she enjoyed them quite as much as 
deorge and Father. In fact, I am sure she did. 

One afternoon, George was delighted to find 
an egg in one of the nests. The next day he 
found three, then two, and the next, six. From 
then on, not a day passed that he did not ha\e 
some eggs to mark down in the ledger Father had 
given him for his accounts. 

School was soon over, and George was delighted 
with the prospect of having more time to spend 
with his pets. Nor did he forget his promise to 
his father about caring for the large family gar- 
den. It was fun to dig in the garden with his 

flock of little chickens around him as the> followed 
his hoe along the rows, picking up the bugs and 
worms. Never before had the garden been so 
well kept. The>' had far more vegetables than 
they could use themselves, and one day his father 
lolti him that he might .sell the extra vegetables 
and have the money for his bank. 

Gradually his savings grew. Nearer and 
nearer seemed that wheel that Father and 
Mother thought he had forgotten. With the 
ten-dollar gold-piece Uncle John had given him 
for Christmas, he had nineteen dollars in the 
bank — nearl>- half enough! 

One morning, as he was coming back Irom an 
errand for Mother, he met Uncle John. 

"Will you give your mother this birthday gift 
for me?" he said, holding out a small package. 

"Is this Mother's birthday?" 

"It sure is. Did n't you know it?" 

"I 'd forgotten. Uncle John. Of course I will 
gi\e it to her. When are you coming over to see 
my chickens again?" 

"I '11 be over soon," said his uncle, as he nodded 
a good-b>-. 

On his way home, George thought of all the 
help his mother had gi\en him in caring for his 
chickens and how neatly she had arranged the 
\egetables for him. "Mother has been awfully 
good to me," he said. "I wonder if it would 
lilease her if I bought a birthday gift for her." 
.Automatically, his footsteps turned toward the 
hardware store. "1 guess 1 '11 ask .Mr. Filing 


'I UK m.i 

in KK 


"HtKE IS THE vol ,NG MAN WHO GREW THAT loMAlu iMih Nh\ I I'AoIl 

what Mother might likf," he thought, as he 
gazed longingly at the blue byke. 

As he entered the store Mr. Elting smiled from 
behind the counter and said, "Well, young man, 
do you want that bicycle?" 

"Yes, I want it some day, but not now, Mr. 
Elting. This is Mother's birthday, and 1 want 
something for her. 1 wonder w'hat she 'd like?" 

"Here is a nice hreless cooker that she has al- 
ways admired, (ieorge," the storekeeper said 
laughingly, enjoxing his joke immensely; "or 
would you i)refer a nice bread-knife?" 

"How much is the cooker?" 

"Fifteen dollars." 

"D-d-did Mother say she would like one?" 

"Yes, George, she was admiring it only >ester- 
day. But don't think about it, my boy; it 's too 
expensive. I was only joking. We ha\e some 
dandy new bread-kni\'es that are just the thing." 

t Ieorge look a long, lingering look at the blue 
byke and then turned to Mr. Elting. "Will \ou 
send up that cooker this afternoon?" he said. 
"I 'II come right back with the money." And he 
ran out of the store before Mr. Elting had re- 
covered from his astonishment. 

After taking the necessary nione\- from his 
bank, George ran back to the store. It was a 
proud bo\- who passed the window\ with head up, 

sa>iiig lu hinisell. "1 don't want the old wheel, 



He laid his nione\' on the counter; 

nor could he resist telling Mr. Elting, as he 
jiocketed his receipt,"! earned part of that in\self." 

Mother was the proud one that night, but 
George could not understand why she cried when 
she met Father at the door. 

A few days later, his father asked George to 
come out into the garden with him. As they 
were walking up and down the rows, Mr. Usher 
noticed an enormous tomato on one of the vines. 

"\\ hat have \ou here, son?" 

"Is n't thai a beauty, Father? .\nd have \'ou 
noticed the cauliHower?" 

"\\'h\, no, 1 lia\e n't." Mr. Usher replied. 
Later, when lln\ had finished inspecting the 
garden he .said, "\au 've done well, son. Chick- 
ens and a garden make a good combination. We 
have ne\er had one like this before. We must 
place an exhibit in the garden show next week." 

With his father's help t.eorge placed his entries 
in the show — a tine sight it was, too, made up ol 
his best specimens. All the town was there, and 
many were the cries of wonderment bestowed on 
the mammoth tomato. Great was his delight 
when he learned that the blue ribbon of first prize 
had been awarded to his exhibit. 

While he was gathering up his produce after 




the show was o\er he heard a voice behind liiiii 
say, "Here is the >oung man who grew tlial 

fieorge lurntd. There was Mr. Ehing and a 
strange gentlenuin beside him. "This is Mr. 
Castle, the seed man, (".eorge," he said. 

George shook hands heartih', but acknowledged 
Mr. Castle's compliments to him on his success 
with some embarrassment. 

"Young man, that is the handsomest tomato I 
have ever seen. .\s it is our business to obtain 
such prizes for our stock, it gi\es me great pleasure 
to offer you fifty dollars for that splendid speci- 
men, and all the seed you can use next \ear." 

"Do you mean that you are offering me five 
dollars for one tomato?" .stammered C'.eorge, who 
thought he had misunderstood the sum named. 

"Not five, but fifty. It will be worth more than 
that to us for advertising, as Mr. Eiting tells nie 
it was grown from our seed." 

George was speechless for a moment, but, a I 
Mr. Elting's suggestion, gladly accepted the 
offer. With fifty dollars in his pocket, he ran 
straight for the hardware store. .\11 his longing 
for the bicycle had returned in full force; his face 
glowed in anticipation. .As he neared the store 

he strained his eyes at the window. 1 1 was 
empty! With a sinking heart, he entered the 
store and asked the clerk for the wheel. 

"Mr. Eiting sold it this morning, (ieorge; I 'm 
awfully sorry. But we have others just as good." 

"I don't want any just as good," said George, 
unable to conceal his disappointment. No won- 
der, after waiting so long without being able to 
buy it; and now, when he had the money, the 
wheel was gone ! He walked slowly home. What 
good was the money in his pocket? It would not 
buy him the one thing he wanted. 

As he came into the house, his nuitlu'i- called, 
"Is that you, George?" 

"Yes, Mother," 

"Did you feed the chickens?" 

"No, JNlother." 

"It will soon be dark. You had better hurry." 

He walked slowly out the back door, his eyes 
dejectedly on the ground. When he finally 
looked up he gave a whoop of jo>-. \\ hat was 
that leaning against the chicken-house? It was 
the blue byke! On a tag, tied to the handle-bars, 
was written, 

"To the son of whom we are so proud. 
With lo\e from Mother and Father." 

"WH.\T WAS THAI Ll-AMM. \(.Al\^l mi, t IIK K1-..N-H< iL sE.' IT WAS THE HI.tF. UYKE: 



Author of "Cinderella's Granddaugluer" 


When Mother was summoned to Bermuda on account of Aunt Isabelle's health, what was Katherine Embury to 
do? Father was in Alaska on business. Don was summering on a ranch in Wyoming, and Mother refused to leave 
Katherine at home alone with the servants. There was nowhere to go but to (ireat-aunt Marcia's and no time to 
wait for a return telegram. But Great-aunt Marcia was known not to have slept out of her own house in twenty 
years. Vet when Katherine arrived the house was closed. Aunt Marcia in .Seattle, and Patricia Ward picking 
roses in the garden. Pat took pretty, aristocratic Katherine home and introduced her to her big lively family, 
on the very eve. as it chanced, of their departure for the Ward camp in Vermont. And Katherine Kmbury did n't 
look in the least like the sort of girl who would have a gooil time roughing it. So. without letting Katherine know 
they had expected to go with the otiiers. Pat and her mother decide to stay at home, at least temporarily, with 
their uiie.xpected guest. 



To Katherine Embury, Mrs. Ward's invitation 
presented a simple and natural solution of her 
difficulty, and she accepted it without scruple. 
Girls had stayed at her mother's on as slight 
acquaintance. She was conscious of thinking, in 
the hustle of departure the next morning, it was 
lucky for her the entire household was not going. 

Standing a bit aloof under the vines, as became 
a stranger, she heard Phil say to Pat, "Now don't 
\ou forget what I told you, old lad>'. Previous 
engagement and all that sort of thing. It 's up to 
>ou to manage somehow." And Pat had replied: 
"Oh. I 'II try. You know I 'II do my best, Phil." 

This was Greek to Katherine, who, neverthe- 
less, quietly moved a step or two farther away; 
but she could not help seeing Nick dash up with a 
silky brown puppy, which he bundled unceremoni- 
ously into his sister's arms, nor help hearing a few 
words: " — homesick at Stone's — you see to him. 
Take him back when — >ou know, if — " 

Then Marian and Aunt Ida came out, and 
everybody kissed Mrs. Ward, and Marian clung 
10 her in a seesaw of tears and expectancy, while 
Mr. Ward's deep voice adjured, "Hurry up, peo- 
])le; trains wait for no man — or woman, either." 
".Never go into the water unless Father or Aunt 
Ida says you may," Katherine heard Mrs. Ward 
counsel. "Do just as .\unt Ida says, dear, and be 
sure to write me ever>'thing that hajipens. Now 
run along, sweetheart. She 's coming, Father." 
There they went, streaming helter-skelter down 
the path and out into the street, turning half-way 
to the corner to wave at the figures the>' had left. 
It was all very intimate and warm and important, 
curiously important, somehow. Turning (|uickly, 
Katherine surp'rised Pat's eyes full of tears. 

Pal caught the astonished glance, blushed, cov- 
ered her tears with a wry little smile, and dropped, 
puppy in hand, to the \eranda steps. 

"Come, let 's pl.i\ with him." 

Katherine sank down beside her. "You care 
a lot about their going, don't you.''" 

"Why, of course," said Pat. "I 'm daffy o\er 
the boys. You know how it is. You ha\'e a 
brother yourself." 

Katherine remembered the unconcern with 
which she and Don viewed each other's mo\e- 
ments, and Pat went on: 

"I remember him as an awfully nice bo\'. 
Pretty bossy with the goats, but I guess jou ha\e 
to be bossy with goats. You must hate to ha\e 
him 'way out there in Wyoming." 

"Of course, it is rather far," Katherine acknowl- 

"And when they are away 'most all the year in 
college, the wa>' the boys are — Don 's in college, 
is n't he?" 

"A sophomore — no, a junior, since last week." 

"Phil 's a junior, too. It nearly killed me the 
first year. He and I had always been such chums. 
And to have him away — Then last year Fred 
went too. When Nick goes, I don't know what I 
shall do. He has one more >ear in high, thank 
goodness. Is Don as nice as he used to be."*" 

"Oh yes." 

"He was a good-looking lilllt' boy." 

"I think you would call him goodloc iking now." 


"Six feet, one and a half." 

"Jolly! I like 'em tall." 

"He is broad, too. Plays football, \ou know. 
Made his letter last year. They put him in for 
four minutes of play in the last game." 

"I know how you felt. Proud! Well r.uher! 
W ere you there yourself?" 

"Oh no, I — 1 le did n't tell us he was going to 

"Modest. That 's good, too. Do you know, 
>'ou 're a wt)nderful girl. Katherine Embun,. " 

"1 wonder what >i)U mean In that." 

"You 're modest, too. If I were telling some- 
bod) about Phil— Well!" 

A faint flush moimted in the guest's cheeks. 




Pat's tongue raced on. "But then, of course, 
I have three, so I have a right to be three times 
as proud, and maybe it 's excusable when you arc 
three times a thing to show it a little. Only I 
know if 1 had just Phil, 1 'd ne\-er be able to act 
modest about him. But there! I can't sit here 
,ill the morning, can you? I simply must do some- 
thing strenuous." 

".Anything you like." 

"Vers- jolly, thank you." 

"Good! there 's a court on the next street. 
"S'ou like a rather heaw racket, don't you?" 
"Fairly hea\y." 
"I thought so." 

On the wa\- to the closet under the stairs to 
choose rackets they passed the room where Mrs. 
Ward sat at a desk. 

"I am writing your mother, Katherine," she 
called softh-. "I am asking her to trust me with 
her daughter." 

Katherine smiled into the strong, gentle face. 
"1 know she will." Then she leaned forward and 
her gray eyes looked straight into the dark ones. 
"Please do not let my coming be a nuisance. I 
noticed Patricia doing things for you, helping 
about the house. \\'on't you let me do things, 

"Indeed I will." Pat's mother bent swiftly 
and kissed the delicate cheek. "I shall feel that 
I ha\-e two daughters at home now." 

"Oh, thank you!" The giri's face warmed 
under the caress. "We were going to play tennis, 

"1 am glad of that. It will help Pat forget for 
a while how much she is missing her brothers." 
Thoughtfully Katherine joined Pat in the hall. 
"Here are the boys'," said Pat, "and Father's 
racket, and mine. Which will you ha\'e? I can 
use one of the boys' just as well if you like mine 

"So can I," said Katherine, testing the rackets. 

Thereupon the\- proceeded to the tennis-court 

(jn the next street, and the ache at Pat's heart 

rapidly diminished under the necessity of putting 

all her strength and skill into the game. 

"I shall get to be rather fancy if I play much 
with >ou," she told Katherine, after the set. 
"Nick's game is n't much better than mine, but 
Phil is a crackerjack, and Fred plays almost as 
well. I did n't hax'e them till a week ago to pull 
up my pla>-. Now what shall we do this after- 

"Oh, anything. It won't matter." 
"Don't say that. Of course it matters." 
"Does it?" Katherine regarded the other girl 
smilinglv. "How excited you get over things!" 
"I know it," ruefully. "But I 'd rather get ex- 

cited than not care — Honest!\-, dfies n't it mat- 
ter to >-ou what we do this afternoon?" 
"No. Does it to you — really?" 
"Most certainly it does. It matters tremend- 
ously to me every minute of the day what I do. 
I expect you 're like that, too. You meant, did 
n't you, that you had n't decided >cl what to 
want to do? You were waiting for me to suggest 
something. Or perhaps you were just being 

An impulse stirred Katherine, the imiiulse to 
explore, to question. "I meant what I said," she 
told Pat, simply. "I like well enough to do a 
great many things. I liked to play tennis this 
morning. I should have liked equally well to do 
soiuething else. Is n't that, after all, the way you 

Pat's laugh bubbled to her lips. "Oh, dear no! 
Of course I know I exaggerate more or less when I 
talk, but, making all possible allowances, that 
description would n't fit me at all." 
"Do you really love tennis?" 
"Well, yes, I do. Not, of course, as I love 
Nick — But, yes, I love it. And I loathe croquet. 
That 's the diliference. Of course, everybody has 

"Have they?" Katherine meditated. 
"How do you put it when you want something 
terribly?" Pat inquired. 
"Why, I don't. Do you?" 
Incredulity looked out of the brown face. "I 
beg your pardon, but you can't possibly have 
meant what you said." 

It was Katherine's turn to be surprised. "I 
don't think I understand you. Most girls have 
stopped 'wanting things terribly' when they get 
to be as old as we are." 

"None of the giris I know have stopped. 1 can 
think of a dozen things this minute — well, half a 
dozen an>^vay, one in particular — that I want 

"Really? That 's funny, is n't it!" 
"Don't you want anything— enough to cry for 
it?" The question pushed in astonished wonder 
past Pat's lips. 

"No," said Katherine, still smiling. 
Under the scrutiny of the gra\- eyes, the wonder 
in Pat's face changed to horror; the horror, to 
something else, faint and indefinable, that Kather- 
ine could not name. 

"Did n't you ei'er?" Pat persisted, regardless 
of manners. 

Katherine wrinkled her delicate brows in an 
effort to remember. She had an odd feeling 
that her self-respect was at stake, without at all 
understanding why it should be so. 

"Not since I was eight," she said, "and there 
was a doll that I could not ha\'e. It belonged to 



another little girl, and Mother could not find its 

"Then you did n't want the right things," Pat 
said, with conviction, "or else you got them all." 

"Oh yes. I got them." 

"Oh, you poor dear! I 'm so sorry." 

The indefinable thing was quite clear now. shin- 
ing compassionately out of Pat's liquid brown 
eyes. Katherine recognized it at last with a 
start of incredulity'. Pity! A strange feeling 
swept o\'er the girl, a faint wa\e of repugnance. 
Pit>'? \\ h\' should any one pit>' her? Bewil- 
dered resentment stirred in Katherine's heart. 

"Oh, I am so sorry," Pat's warm friendh- ^•oice 
was saying. "It must be perfectly dreadful to 
feel that way — not to care about things. Why I 
— I would n't want to be alive if I could n't care. 
It 's glorious to want a thing so much that you 
fairh- ache with wanting it. to hojie and plan and 
dream and contrive and then to have it come 
true — Oh, it 's glorious! To want a thing so 
hard that it seems as though you might die of 
wanting, even if you don't get it — that 's not so 
glorious, but I don't belie\'e I 'd be willing to miss 
it. It must be so dull not to want things!" The 
words came out with a little explosive spurt. 

"Perhaps it is dull," Katherine acknowledged. 
She had ne\er thought of her life in such terms, 
but. in contrast with this \ivid experience, her 
own sensations seemed colorless and drab. "I 
had thought all girls were like that. If not, 1 
must be queer." 

The conversation, punctuated by frequent halts, 
had brought them at last to the home gate. 
Now, as they turned, a girl's voice hailed them. 
"Why, Pat \\'ard! You 're the last person I ex- 
pected to see. What in the world are >ou doing 
here? I thought you had started for camp." 

"Oh. that was the boys, Carlotta," said Pat, 
quickly, falling a step behind Katherine and ges- 
ticulating frantically for silence. "They went off 
with Father this morning. Did you know Kath- 
erine F^mbun,' when she used to visit Miss Brunt? 
Carlotta Hyde lives on the same street as your 
aunt, Katherine. three or four houses away." 

•■Ml of a sudden Pat had become tremendousK' 
concerned to keep Katherine from discf)\-('ring 
what had happened. 

"Do you know, !Mother," she explained that 
night, "for all Katherine is so pretty and sweet 
^nd has such lovely clothes and beautiful manners 
ind such a fascinating v'oice, I don't belie\e she 
is verj' happy." 

"She has n't the appearance of an unhapp>- girl, 

"Not unhappN , exactly — just not happ>'. .\n\- 
way, I 'd hate to have her find out she had inter- 
rupted our summer." 



It was inevitable that the slip should occur. 
-Afterward. Katherine looked back on a score of 
significant happenings, and blamed herself for her 
blindness not to ha\e seen their meaning. That 
the inevitable did not happen for three days re- 
flects credit on Pat's precautionar>- measures. 

Then there was a garden-part\'. The fact tha' 
it was a garden-part\' is insignificant ; as far as the 
disaster was concerned, it might as easih' have 
been a sewing-bee or a luncheon or even a prayer- 
meeting. "Look after her while I 'm sers'ing," 
Pat had warned Carlotta, "and don't let anybody- 
talk to her about our summer camp. From that 
they would be sure to go on to asking if she 
knew when Mother and I are going up and wh\- 
we did n't go when the rest went." 

But who could avert Daphne Vane's happ\ 
shout? Daphne, motoring through the town that 
had been her home a year ago, had been swept 
into the garden-part>'. and Daphne had one of 
those clear, distinct \oices that lift the lightest 
word above a buzz of speech or clatter of china. 

"Oh. there 's Pat Ward!" she cried. "I did n't 
ex]3ect to see her. She wrote me the>" were all 
going to camp last Friday. Oh Pat, Pat, dar- 

The soft words carried straight to Katherine's 
ears. She saw Pat's eyes meet Daphne's, and 
into her face flash welcoming gladness. She 
heard Pat's joyous, "Daphne.' What are you do- 
ing? Motoring? 1 1 's perfectly grand to see you !" 

Katherine turned t(j Carlotta Hyde. 

" Ynii were surprised to see Patricia the morning 
I first met you." 


"A few other people haxe been less surprised 
since then. Now that I think of it, Pat has al- 
ways managed to shut them off as she shut ofl 
Miss \'ane a moment ago. Were Mrs. Ward and 
Pat planning to go to camp with the others?" 

"Since you ask me. " answered Carlotta, 
gra\ely, "the\- were." 

It was then, automaticalK'. that Katherine 
began to remember. Happenings, allusions, ret- 
icences, imnoliced when the\' took place, flashed 
back into the girl's consciousness. Words and 
actions that had had no significance for her at the 
lime now fell into position like pieces of a picture- 
|)uzzle when a missing part is supplied. In one 
swift moment of insight she perceived \yhat it was 
that she had done. .A hurt, shamed feeling took 
her b\- the throat and choked her. 

"Thank you, " she told Carlotta. quietly. "I 
have been ver>- stupid." But slu' not qui<'( 
within when Pat found her. 


W ^-ff^"^ 





"I don't want to hurn- >ou away," began Pat. 

"Yoii are not doing so. I am quite ready to go." 

They passed through a sheltering hedge into 
the street before either spoke. Then Pat said, 
"Carlotta told me." 

Katherine did not look at the other girl. She 
found it difiirult to speak. "Why did n't you 
tell me x^ou were going awa\-?" 

"Because we wanted jou to sta>' with us." 

"In that case you might have asked me to go 

"We thought of it. hut Mother said it would be 
taking an unfair advantage of >'ou." 

"I don't understand." 

"Vou don't know our camp." 

"It would n't ha\"e hurt me to learn." 

"Oh, but it might. ^ ou might n't have liked 
it a bit." 

"I can't see that whether I liked or disliked it 
makes an>' difference." 

"Maybe not to you. It would have made a 
difference to us, if we had asked >ou." 

"What is the matter with your camp?" 

"There 's nothing the matter wnth it." Pat 
grew blunt in her turn. "The matter is with you. 
It is just a camp like all camps. You don't know 
anything about camps." 

"I should have preferred learning, to ha\-ing 
been the cause of delaying you and your mother. 
Howe^•er, it has been onK' for a few da>s. I am 
going away to-morrow." 

Pat stopped short. "But you can't." 

"Yes, I can. If nowhere else, I can go home." 

"Your mother would n't like that. She thinks 
>ou are with us for the summer. Or she will 
think so when she gets Mother's letter." 

"She would like less to have me interfering 
with all your plans." 

"You are n't. I mean, I like to ha\ e >ou inter- 

"What was the thing that \()u wanted more 
than anything else in the world, that \ou wanted 
enough to cr\- for it?" The question challenged 
like a glove in the face. 

Pat's color mounted. 

"That was three da>s ago." 

"Was n't it to go to camp with your brothers?" 

"Yes, it was, if >-ou must know. But I tell \-ou 
that was three da>s ago, and — " 

"You will be free to start to-morrow." 

"Oh, Katherine!" Pat stole a glance <it the 
stern young face beside her. "Oon't talk so. 
I 'd hate to go that wa\-. .\nd what about »»v 

" Your mother?" 

"Do you think she would have an easy minute 
if \ou went olT the wa\' \oii 're talking about 
doing now?" 

Katherine frowned. "No." she conceded. "I 
suppose not. I don't see but you will have to 
take me to camp." 

"Our camp," Pat told her, "is thirt>- miles from 
anything bigger than a \-illage. We sleep on 
boughs and we eat off wooden plates and we wear 
our oldest clothes. We take turns cooking and 
getting up in the morning to go for the milk. 
.And we ne\er dress up, except to put on a clean 

"That does n't scare me." 

"But don't you see how different ever\-thing is 
from all the ways you '\e e\er li\ed before?" 

".And don't vok see," Katherine retorted, "that 
what I have learned this afternoon has made m\ 
position here intolerable?" 

Mrs. Ward, rocking on the deep veranda, noted 
the faces of the girls coming up the path, Pat's, 
excited and troubled, Katharine's, unwontedly 
flushed and stern. 

"Mother, Katherine thinks we might take her 
to camp." 

"\\'hy, certainly," said Mrs. Ward, pleasantly. 
"We will go down town to-morrow morning and 
help her purchase her outfit. I had just been 
thinking that we three might go up in a da\' or 
two and surprise the camp." 

"But — but what if she hates it?" Pat gasped. 

"What if I do? " Katherine returned coolly. 
"I am realb' rather curious to see." 

But with every hour, Pat's fears nioiutted. 
"If I did n't lo\e it so myself." she confided to her 
mother the night before they were to start, "I 
should n't care so nuich. Oh. do you suppose she 
will like it?" 

"I can't tell, dear," answered her mother tran- 
t|nilK'. "But I ha\e seen enough of her to be 
certaitt of one thing — if Katherine does n't like 
camp, we shall ne\er know it." 



A TWO-SE.\TED wagon containing four people, 
with a steamer-trunk strapped on at the back, 
drove into a clearing in the woods that clothed 
three sides of a X'ermont lake. The hour was ti\e 
o'clock, and the lake, as far as the eye could see, 
was deserted. Deserted, too, was the camp that 
huddled in the clearing, two connecting tents, the 
larger facing the charred circle of a camp-fire. and. 
at right angles to these, a row of three, also look- 
ing out on the cam|)-fire and beyond it across the 
length of the lake. On either side of the level 
space where the camp was pitched, trees and 
bushes pushed down a gentle slope to the water's 
edge. On a smooth crescent of beach a flat-bot- 
tomed boat was drawn up: two birch canoes lay 
o\'erturned on the s>ind alicivc the water-line. 




Directly behind the dingy canvas of the tents 

towered a fir-dark bulk. 

"Oh, we ha\e surprised them!" cried Pat, jump- 
ing out over the wheel. "How jolly! Look, 

Mother, our beds are made!" 

Katherine, at Pat's elbow, viewed the interior 

of one of the three tents curiously. Saplings at 

front and back supported the ridge-pole; a cord 

stretched between the 

two served both as 

ilothes closet and to di- 

\ ide the tent. On one 

side lay what looked like 

four long, narrow heaps 

of twigs piled to \ar>-ing 

heights; on the other, at 

the foot of the green 

oblongs, nearest the en- 
trance, stood a chestlike 

box and a trunk sur- 
rounded !)>■ a motley col- 
lection of rubber boots 
and tennis- shoes. Be- 
yond the first loomed a 
second, larger trunk. 

"Is that a bed?" 
Katherine's eye was on 
the rectangle nearest her. 
It appeared to be about 
two inches thick and 
was bounded by slender 
poles. At the head la\- 
a roll, and a pillow in a 
dark green co\er. 

"Beautiful beds!" 
Pat sniffed joyously. 
"Spruce! The best kiml 
of bedding. These two 
are .Aunt Ida's and Mar- 
ian's. Yo'u can tell b>' 
ihe thickness, they 're 
crushed down so. I ex- 
pect ihey were as high as 
those others before they 
were slept on. T~he bo\ s 
will make you one. The 

steamer-trunk and set it in place against the side 
of the sleeping-tent. Katherine produced a key 
and unlocked it, while Pat threw up the lid of the 
big trunk beside it and began recklessly tumbling 
out shoes, skirts, and middies. "We '11 put away 
our good clothes and never look at them again till 
the day we go home. 1 'U lay out your things, 
Mater. High boots to-night or sneakers? 


last tent in this row is their and leather's sleep- 
ing-tent. The one between," she waved a hand 
toward the big tent "is the dining-room and also 
living-room on rainy days. Now come down to 
the lake, quick!" 

She drew Katherine down beside her and 
plunged Katherine's hand, with hers, into the cool 
water. "Birch Lake, this is m>- friend, Katherine 
Ivmbury. And oh, I do hope you will like each 
other. Now let 's get into our camp things. 
Then we shall feel at home." 

The dri\-er of the wagon had unstrapped the 

"High boots, thank you. Most)uilo.s like me 
too well for tennis-shoes." 

Plainly, Pat was ecstatically happy. Kather- 
ine watched her quick movements and deftly, 
silently, followed her e.xample. Modish hat and 
suit, gloves, blouse, and stockings retired into ob- 
livion at the bottom of the steamer-trunk. On 
came stout boots — Katherine decided she would 
not yd try conclusions with mosquitos — and a 
white cotton middy. Pat had taken down her 
curly hair, swept the pins into a tray of the trunk, 
and now was brushing and braiding it in two fat 


KIT, FAT AM) A FKW B( )\ ^ 


little tails. 'l"he ends she proceeded to tie with big 
bows of red ribbon, before pinning up the braids. 

"The ribbon is a concession to the fact that we 
are fresh from civilization," she explained glibly. 
"Generalh- I just use a rubber band. Handier 
for the woods. Does n't catch on the under- 

Katherine. lacing her boots, thought how like 
a little girl Pat looked, with her curly head and 
bright cheeks. Then she took down her own hair, 
and, calmly sitting on the lid of her trunk, with- 
out even a glance at the mirror, parted it in the 
middle and began to braid. 

Pat stopped, half-way into an ancient brown 
skirt. "You old sport! I 've been pining ever 
since I first saw \ou to see how it would look that 

"How does it look?" 

"Lovely! It 's so long and there 's so much in 
each braid. The\- 're perfect ropes, for all the>' 're 
so silk>-. Does n't Katherine look sweet, 

"\'ery sweet, dear, and, like \ou, about half as 
old as she actually is." 

Pat tossed two blue ribbons to the girl on the 
trunk. "The\' 're Marian's. She won't mind. 
I fee! half as old, Mother. I feel — skittish." 

Her mother laughed. "Perhaps you would 
better go out and gallop it off." 

"When Katherine is read) . I alwa\ s act like a 
colt just let into the pasture when I get to camp. 
Oh, they 're coming!" Pat cried suddenly. "Let 's 
hide, and then all three of us burst out at once 
and 'boo' at them." She flattened herself 
against the side of the tent, her eye to the opening. 

Katherine had a sensation of a swift approach; a 
long dingj- length shot b>', basket in hand, in a 
noiseless stride toward the kitchen. An impres- 
sion of black hair, black eyes, a dark, mobile face, 
familiar, yet unfamiliar, persisted in the girl's 
mind. After the first, in long leaps, bounded a 
second nondescript figure; others were framed 
by the open flies. It was an excited group, for 
everybody was talking at once, opening bas- 
kets, and gesticulating. Into the midst bounded 
Nick, scales in hand, and Phil followed. Mr. 
Ward took the scales, if dignified, scholarly 
Mr. Ward could ha%e turned into this bronzed, 
fiannel-shirted woodsman. 

"Squabble o\er which has the heaviest fish," 
Pat explained in Ivatherine's ear. "Let 's put 
Mother in the middle. Now then, in just a min- 
ute. Won't they jump, though! Xnu'.'" 

"Boo!" "Boo!" "Boo!" 

Hand in hand, the>' burst triuniphaiitl\- oul of 
the tent, Pat's gips\- face aglow with lo\ e and mis- 
chief, Mrs. Ward's twinkling merrily, e\en Kalh- 
erine's smilingl)- expectant. 

.\ shout went up. Fish and scales fell together. 
Before Katherine's eyes, the picture broke, 
cinema-wise, into rapid motion. The whole 
group leaped for the new-comers, Phil in the lead. 
A hand shot out, thrust Phil aside, and Mrs. 
Ward, tall woman though she was, disappeared 
into the woodsman's arms. Marian clung around 
her mother's neck, threatening to strangle her, 
was picked otT, and one of the bo\s gathered his 
mother into a great bear-hug. A vi\-id red bow 
was all that was to be seen of Pat. 

"Welcome to Birch Camp, Miss Katherine." 

It was the khaki woodsman, and now there was 
no mistaking Mr. \\ ard's kindK . quizzical eves. 

"We are .so glad lo see >-ou !" Sincerit)- rang in 
Aunt Ida's \oice. "This has made Birch Camp 
quite perfect." 

Nor was there any discounting the fervor of 
Phil's utterance: "I say, bulh for you I Vou re a 
trump, all right." 

Katherine felt herself magicalh' drawn within 
the circle ot friendliness and welcome. 

"Cooks to the kitchen," ordered Mr. Ward, 
crisply. "Fred, help me fix another bed before 
supper. Or perhaps we would better set up the 

"Not for me," interposed Katherine, .swiftly. 

"No trouble at all. We keep a cot-bed among 
the stores and often set it up for visitors." 

"1 really prefer to try the boughs, thank you." 

"Katherine may have my bed to-night, Father." 

"Bless >ou, Pat, the is all cut. Now, 
then, boys, work first and talk after\vard." 

"Let 's watch them," whispered Pat. 

The two girls perched on Pat's trunk while 
under their e>es, skilfully laid, the soft pile of 
green twigs grew higher. Then Fred produced 
rubber blankets and what looked to Katherine 
like an astonishing amount of bedding for the 
three unoccupied "beds," and Katherine took her 
first lesson in camp custom. The rubber blanket 
was spread down o\'er the spruce boughs; the 
woolen blankets and "comfortables" laid on it. 
and the whole made into a shapely roll at the head. 

It was \ery curious, the g^rl thought, but she 
w ondered how one would sleep. Howe^•er. she had 
no attention to spare for lorecasting. The im- 
mediate surroundings were loo absorbing. Thex- 
ate at a rough pine table co\ered with oil-cloth, 
and their napkins were of paper. They had 
wooden plates and rather hea\>- white cups and 
plated forks and s[)oons, and manners that, for 
intrinsic courtesy, Katherine had ne\er seen bet- 
tered at her mother's table, shining with silver and 
glass. The cooks came in and ale with the family 
and took turns in jumping up to replenish empty 
dishes or to pass the water-pitcher, and their 
cookery melted in the girl's mouth. She let Mr. 

;il, l^\r AND A H.W BO\S 


\\ iiixl put aiK)thc'i' trout on her plate, and ho|)ed 
that iiobod> reiiienibered how man>' she liad had 

"I actiially had forgotten, Phil," said his 
mother, "how delidousl>- you cook troul. Many 
boys are very good cooks," Mrs. Ward ex|)kiined. 
"As a rule, I think they like to cook and doit vveU." 

"All our bovs cook," said Pat. "Does n't 

"I never knew him to do anything of the kind." 

"You must n't think," persisted teasing Pat, 
"that Phil makes everything taste as good as he 
does trout. When it 's our turn to cook, we al- 
ways pia>' up our strong points. That is why we 
have such good eats in camp. K\er>body makes 
what he can make best." 

Katherine wondered whether her turn would 
come with the rest, and, if so, what she ct)uld do 
with it. 

"Lea\e the plates," Phil remarked, when the 
meal was ended. "I '11 burn 'em. This way to 
the dish-pan." 

Ever>'bod>' rose, picked up his cup, knife, fork, 
and spoon, and proceeded in single file b>- a wind- 
ing, fern-grown path to the lake. .•\ boat was 
drawn up on the shore, one end in the water. 
One bj- one the campers ran out into the stern of 
the boat, rinsed cup and silver in the water, 
scrubbed knife and fork with a wad of grass, and 
wiped them on towels hanging from the bushes 

Unerringly Katherine followed their example. 

"Honestly, have n't >ou ever camped before?" 
Pat questioned, as the two took their wa\- back up 
the trail. "You seem to know just what to do." 

Katherine wrinkled her nose, whimsically. "1 
copy just as fast as I can." 

"Really? I '11 tell you something. We don't 
generally wash our dishes in the lake. Phil, bad 
bo>-, started this to .see if he could get a rise out of 

"He did n't, tlid he?" said Katherine, demurely. 

The girls set their cups and sil\er on one end of 
the dining-table. 

"Our library." Pat waved a hand at a narrow 
bo.\ ol books set shelf-wise on two sapling sup- 
ports. Katherine ran over -the titles — "Don 
Quixote," "Little \\'omen," "Tom Brown's 
School-Days," "Life of John Hay," Shakespeare 
in three \olumes, "Pride and Prejudice," "The 
Journal" of Maurice de Guerin, "Tales of the 
Mermaid Tavern," "The Great Hunger," "David 
Copperfield," Lamb's Essays, "The Education ol 
Henr>' Adams," "Lorna Doone." 

"We mostly take different ones every year," 
Pat explained. "But Marian won't be separated 
from 'Little Women' and Mother always brings 

{To be 

Shakespeare. It 's grand to read '.As You Like 
It' or 'Midsummer Night's Dream' in the woods. 
We each put in the books we want to read most, 
you know, and, having so few, we really do it. 
This summer I am going to read 'Anthony and 
Cleopatra' and 'Henry V and 'The Life of John 
Hay.' Then, if 1 have time, I 'II treat myself 
again to 'Lorna Doone.' What do you want 

"I always meant to read 'Pride and Prejudice,' " 
Katherine acknowledged, wondering a little at 
Pat's list and how she had come to choose it. 

"This is your chance, then. Aunt Ida put it 
in, but nobody is reading it now. We try not 
to poach on each other's book preserves. It isi 
horrid to have to hide a book if you want to finish 
it without waiting. We 'd better put on our 
sweaters," Pat continued. "It will be cold soon. 
The camp-fire toasts our faces while our back^ 

.•\s the girls emerged from their sleeping-tent, 
Nick began closing the flaps tightly. At a little 
distance Phil and Fred were stuffing ferns into an 
old tin boiler. 

"The smudge," Pat explained. "It drive;- 
away the mosquitos, you know." 

"I don't know." Katherine walked over to the 
boys and the rusty boiler. "How does it drive 
them away?" 

"By acting up to its name," F'red told her. 

.•\ dense smoke and a villainous smell were issu- 
ing from the boiler. The girl sniffed and coughed. 
"Fearfully choky." 

Phil stuffed in more ferns and, snatching up the 
boileC, darted into the first sleeping-tent, whence 
he swiftly emerged, tying the flaps behind him. 

"Lovely odor, don't you think so? Fine to 
sleep in. Gives a person jolly dreams." 

Katherine gave back to the impish black eyes 
look for look as she replied: 

"You certainly manage to make bedtime sound 

"Can't make her turn a hair, can you?" jeered 
Fred, as the brothers repaired to the wood-pile for 
the evening's supply of fire-wood. 

"That girl is a dead game sport," said Phil. 
"Gee, you could have knocked me over with a 
shaving when I first saw her!" 

"Me, too. Hair down her back like any kid. 
But I 'II bet you she don't think highly of this 
turn-out, just the same." 

"Huh, that 's all you know," said his brother. 
"She don't think yet. She 's just sizing us up. 
When in Rome — that 's as far as she 's got. But 
she is the quickest to get that far of any tender- 
foot I ever .saw." 

Six hours later Birch Camp was very still. 



A Falriiilii Mn.sijue 


One of the most beautiful and appropriate ways uf 
celebrating a national festival, such as the Fourth of 
July or Flag Day, is by presenting a pageant or a 
masque in which the meaning of the day shall be 
made clear through the cooperation of the talents 
and enthusiasm of a whole neighborhood. Almost 
any community or school can prepare such a cele- 
bration. There must be some one to take charge 
who can organize the committees and block out the 
performance, deciding who shall train the singers, 
who sliall select the actors, who is to prepare the 
costumes, who shall supervise the staging, conduct 
the music, attend to all the little forgetable things 
that somebody must be responsible for; and there 
must be, too, a general good will, a desire to work for 
the good of all, based upon the determination that 
this particular event is to put its community upon 
the neighborhood map. Granted these two things, 
initiative and spirit, the talent for a capital perfor- 
mance is bound to appear, and the folk who imder- 
take the celebration will delight themselves as well 
as others with what they succeed in doing. 

It is comparatively easy to produce effects that ap- 
peal to our patriotic sentiment. For one thing, the 
national symbols, the flags, the uniforms, the names 
of great Americans, the names of the Stales them- 
selves, are known to every one, and every one knows 
something about the events of our national history. 
In the right situation a single name is enough to 
provoke a hurrah, and when there is plenty of music, 
color, light, and motion, the public responds fluently 
to the patriotic play. It is just the occasion for mak- 
ing the meaning of America, as a country worth lov- 
ing, evident to all through symbolism and history; 
for the right use of a Fourth of July is not noise and 
jubilation, but the impression t>{ a stronger gratitude 
to those who made the nation free and of a deeper 
determination to keep it worthy of freedom. Kvery 
holiday should be recognized as, in some sense, a day 
of consecration. 

The masque which is here suggested as appropri- 
ate for either the Fourth or for Flag Day is com|>osed 
of three parts or acts. The first and last are sym- 
bcjlic, with singing and dancing and attractive stage 
pictures. The middle part is a dramatic scene, to be 
acted as if upon the stage. The symbolic parts may 
be varied in many ways, both as to the number of 
people participating and the manner of presentation, 
features being added or taken away at will, without 
impairing the general effect. 

For example, as giwii on one occasion, "The Mak- 
ing of the Flag" was made the American scene in a 
pageant devoted to all the westerii allies in the late 
war. A kind of history of freedom was shown, each ol 
the allies deiiicting its own contribution to this great 
himian cause. That of Kngland was the granting of 
the Magna ("harta;ours was the creation, in the Revo- 
lution, of a new nation and a new national standard; 
that of France was the I'rench Revolution; Italy's 
was the (laribaldian struggle for a united Italy; and 
lielgiimi wasgiwn the jDlaceof honor as the standard- 
bearer in the world's last great effort to maintain the 
rights of men to life, lil)ert\', and the |)ursuit of 

The performance itself may be indoors or out- 
doors, but the latter is always to be preferred in the 
summer-time if the conditions are at all favorable. 
.No fixed stage is needed. There should be, however, 
a level green with a background of greenery, which 
is always easy to make by reinforcing clumps of 
natural bushes with cuttings brought fresh on the 
day of the performance. Entrances ma\- lie half con- 
cealed by greenery or bunting; but it is well to bear 
in niind that audiences, especially for out-of-door 
perforiTiances, pay very little attention to how the 
[lerformers gel on or off the stage; the thing that is 
remembered is the com])leted picture and the signif- 
icant action that goes with it; it that is well done, 
success is assured. 

For the presentation of parts requiring the sugges- 
tion of .scenery, like the interior of Betsy Ross'.\ 
house in "The Making of the Flag," a capital device 
consists in large portable screens, like great banners, 
representing the wings and baik-drop of a stage. 
The screens may be made of l)urlap or canvas, 
mounted on bamboo or other light poles, and held in 
place by boys in Colonial uniforms. The cloth should 
be painted a neutral green, to harmonize with the 
background. The wing screens may readily be 
adorned with an emblem in the national colors. 
When the screens are in place, attendants enter with 
the few articles of furniture needed. If the per- 
formance is at night, the light will, of course, be con- 
centrated upon the improvised stage. .\ brief 
musical prelude should introduce the action. 

.'Mmost without exception, the best effects are 
produced by evening performances. People are jjer- 
haps more in the mood for poetic appreciation at this 
time, but in an\' case the light is less garish and the 
illusion more effective. Of course, the evening per- 
formance calls for skilled use of illumination, and is 
only to be made successful when there is a good man 
,il the spot-light and the lantern, .\nother feature 
which is attractive for an evening performance is the 
use of projected pict ures in place of living-pict nres or 
tableaux. The effective use of lantern-slides calls 
for a laiitern with a long projection and a powerfid 
light; but where these can be obtained, it will be 
found that many subjects give better results in this 
fashion than in any other. This is partly due, no 
doubt, to the fact that the figures can be made'of 
heroic size, and out-of-<loors this is a matter of im- 
portance. In this masque two such pict ures are called 
for in the first part: one the well-known "Spirit of 
1776" and the other the "Signing of the Declaration." 
Either or both of ma\' be given as a tableau, 
but there is gain, especialh- for the "Signing," ii\ the 
lantern projection; and its efl'ect will be greatly in- 
creased if the portraits of Washington, Jefferson, 
Adams, Madison, an<l others are immediately after- 
ward thrown upon the screen. While pictures are 
shown, there should, of course, be music, or music 
accompanying the ))ro|)er recitation. In the matter 
of recitation, it is important not to give too inuch. 
One ought never read the whole of the Declaration 
of Independence; a few sentences or phrases is enough 
to suggest the meaning of the whole, and that is all 
that is wanted. 






Scene; Agreensward. with greener\' backgrouiici. 

Roll of Drums. Music of fife and drums playing 
"Yankee Doodle." The fifer and drummers enter — 
the "Spirit of 1776," symbolizing that love of libert\' 
and justice in which the United States of .America 
came into being as one of the world's great nations. 
Fifer and drummers pass out. 

CoLVMBL\ and the Thirteen Colonies enter to 
the music of "Hail, Columbia!" pla>-ed by band or 
orchestra. Led by Columbia, the Colonies group and 
separate. They are joined by an equal number of 
youths in the uniform of the Revolution. With these 
they dance the Colonial Dances, to the music of the 

A blare of bugles announces the coming of the 
St.\tes, dressed in star-adorned robes, who enter in 
groups and move in starr>' squadrons to Columbia, 
and range themsel\-es with the Colonies and their 
attendants to form the chorus. While they are per- 
forming these evolutions, the music played should be 
a good patriotic medley. 

Signing of the Decl.\k.\tion of Independence. 
.\ screen falls and upon it is projected the picture of 
the signing of the Declaration of Independence by the 
delegates of the Colonies. As the picture is shown, 
Columbia advances and reads: 

"When in the course of human events it becomes 
necessary' for one people to dissolve the political 
bands which have connected them with another, and 
to assume among the powers of the earth the separate 
and equal station to which the laws of nature and of 
nature's God entitle them. . . . 

"We, therefore, declare: That these United Col- 
onies are and of right ought to be. Free and Inde- 
pendent States. . . ." 

[If the performance is in the daytime, this scene 
should be treated as a tableau, and Thomas Jefferson 
should be given the reading.] 

The Picture Vanishes. The "Spirit of 1776" 
appears once more in the central background. The 
Colonies, the Revolutionary' Soldiers, the Starry 
States, surge forward and sing: 


{Music by George W. Warren) 

God of our fathers, whose almighty hand 
Leads forth in beauty all the starry band 
Of shining worlds in splendor thro' the skies, 
Our grateful songs before th\- thrones arise. 

Thy love divine hath led us in the past, 

In this free land by Thee our lot is cast; 

Be Thou our ruler, guardian, guide, and stay; 

Thy word, our law; Thy paths, our chosen way. 

From war's alarms, from deadly pestilence, 
• Be Thy strong arm our ever sure defense; 
Thy true religion in our hearts increase, 
Thy bounteous goodness nourish us in peace. 

Refresh Thy people on their toilsome way, 
Lead us from night to never-ending day; 
Fill all our lives with love and grace divine, 
.\nd glorj-, laud, and praise be ever Thine. 

Daniel C. Roberts. 

or, "O Beautiful for Spairious Skies." b> Katherinc 
Lee Bates {Music by Samuel A. Ward), beginning: 

O beautiful for spacious skies, for amber wa\'es of 

For purple mountain majesties above the fruited 

.America! .America! God shed His grace on thee. 
And crown thy good with brotherhood from sea to 

.shining sea! 

or, "O Lord Our God, Thy iMighty Hand," by 
Henrj' \'an Dyke {Music by Walter 0. Wil- 
kinson), beginning: 

O Lord our God, Thy mighty hand hath made our 

country free: 
From all her broad and happj' land may worship 

rise to Thee'; 
Fulfil the promise of her youth, her liberty defend; 
By law and order, love and truth, America befriend! 

END OF part I 




Bettikins, a ten-year-old. Betsy Ross, Iter mother. 

General Washington. Robert Morris. Major Ross. 

Scene: The front room of the home of Betsy 
Ross, upholsteress, Philadelphia, May, 1777. A 
large window (right) overlooks the street; a door (left 
rear) to the interior of the house; another door (left 
fore) to the street. Between the two doors is a ward- 
robe, door ajar, within it the bright colors of uphol- 
sterer's stuffs. To right of inner door is a tall clock, 
and beyond this, center, is a colonial sofa, above 
which hangs the portrait of a soldier of the Revo- 
lution, a saber suspended beneath. To the right, be- 
fore the winflow, is Betsy Ross's work-table — sewing 
materials and stuffs upon it and a pitcher filled with 
poppies. .At the extreme right is a long mirror. Two 
or three chairs of plain pattern complete the furni- 
ture. Over one of the chairs hangs a piece of uphol- 
stering cloth upon which the arms of Washington — 
the stars and bands — has been appliqued. On the 
bare floor are scraps of cloth and thread-waste. The 
time is morning, and the sunlight streams in through 
the window on the poppies. 

{The tall clock strikes eight, as the curtain rises. The 
door from within, left rear, is pushed slowly open, and 
the bright, inquisitive face of Mistress Bettikins peers 
from behind it. After a second's hesitation, she enters.) 

Bettikins {curtsying to the clock). C.ood morrow, 
Gran'sire Clock! {Retreating slightly, with a wave of 
Ihe hand and another curtsy:) Good morrow! {.She 
turns gaily to^vard the window and the sun-hrightened 
poppies.) Goofl morrow, Flowers! Good morrow. 
Day! Good morrow, you. Sir Sun! {She turns to the 
portrait atwve the sofa and blows a kiss:) .And good 
morrow to my dear, dear soldier father, gone so long, 
so long to the cruel war! .Ah, when wilt thou come 
again to Mumsy and thy little Bettikins? 'T will bc- 
matiy a day and many a day, our Mumsy says, — 
and she wecpeth saying it, — for our good General 
Washington hath iiced of thee. But oh, Father mine, 
the day will be a merry one when thou 'rt come again ! 
{.She faces about and catches a glimpse of her own re- 
flection in the tall mirror. She greets it with an arch 
gesture; then saucily curtsies and playfully postures 
before it, all with a childish affectation.) Good mor- 
row and fair day, sweet Mistress Ross! Thou 'rt 



early come a-calling. {Earnestly.) But oh, wilt 
thou not be early when thy dear father is come from 
the wars! And make thyself fine, fine! (Seized inith 
a fancy, she snatches a piece of gay stuff from the table 
atid drapes it about lierself, surveying the result in the 
mirror. She begins to sing, keeping time with body and 

Yankee Doodle rode to town 
Upon a little pony, 
(She takes ortf of the poppies and thrusts it in her 

Stuck a feather in his cap. 
And called him macaroni! 

Yankee Doodle, doodle, do, 
''I'ankce Doodle dandy — 

{She stops suddenly and throws aside the gay mantle. ) 
Nay, but I will be no gay macaroni until my soldier 
father be come again and Mums>- weepeth no more. 
{She goes to the wardrobe and, taking a piece of blue 
cloth, wraps this about her.) 'T is better! I shall be 
rather the Lady of the Stars, which are the fair 
guardians of them that sleep afield. (Slie takes from 
the table her mother's yardstick, which site holds aloft, 
like a wand.) And this shall be my staff of magic 
wherewith to light them — all the fair stars of heaven 
that they may shine brightly, there where the soldiers 
lie in the open! 

(Bettikins stands with her staff upraised. The door 
from within opens wider, and Betsy Ross appears. 
■She smiles, seeing the blue-robed maiden, who has not 
yet seen Iter.) 

Betsy. And who is this Lady o' the Blue, in 
Betsy Ross's parlor.'' 

Bettikins (half startled). Oh, Mumsy! [Recov- 
ering her posture. ) To-da\- I am the Fair\- Cerulea, 
thou hast told me of. This is m\- robe of blue, like 
the blue, blue sk>-. And this is my wand, wherewith 
I light the lanterns of the stars each night, to shine 
while men do sleep. But oh, Mumsy, there should be 
a shining star on the wand's end, and I know not how 
to make one! 

Betsy (catching up Bettikins and kissing her). 
Methinks 't is no great trick. I '11 show thee, maiden 
mine. .And then Cerulea will be quite complete, — • 
and may her good star bless her always! 

(She seats herself beside the table. Bettikins at her 
knee. She takes the shears and cuts a square of silver- 
'white silk. This she folds, once and twice and five 
limes, each fold after the first making the angle of the 
point of a star. ) See, 't is so it must be done — a fold, 
first in the middle: then here where is our star's first 
point, and so for the others, each in order. And then 
thou hast but this little wedge of cloth — and then — 
(She lakes the shears and cuts through the folded 
cloth.) Lo, in one simple stroke thou hast a fair 
five-pointed star, fit for any fairy's wand, is 't not, 
sweet one? 

Bettikins (delightedly). Oh, thou magic Mumsy! 

(Betsy deftly fastens tfw star to the end of the yard- 
slick, flattening out the points: while Bettikins holds up 
the cloth from which the star has been cut.) 

Bettikins. .And oh, Mumsy, in the cloth is left 
the very form of the star, like a fairy window formed 
all for starlight, five-pointed! 

Betsy (holding up the star on the wand). And thou 
shouldsl know, sweetheart mine, that each of the 
five points hath its meaning and its lesson. Whereof 
ihe first point, which is this one, like a right hand to 
all, is the image of Justice. ,\nd this, which (•(imrtli 

next below and is like a good strong foot to stand 
upon, is the sign of Courage. And the second foot is 
named Loyalty, which meaneth the pledged troth of 
a stout soul unto all that is right and fair. And the 
arm that reacheth above, and is the shield arm of a 
warrior, is the protecting arm of Faith. And that 
which is above and is the peak and head of all, point- 
ing upright to the zenith, is the token of Hope, which 
is the true illumination of everj- star. Such is the 
lesson of thy wand, my bright Cerulea. 

Bettikins (taking the wand reverently). Dearest 
Mumsy, doth m\- star indeed mean all'that.^ And 
doth my soldier father and do all those. that be soL 
diets of (jencral Washington, when they lie afield 
o' nights, through all the heavens see bright flames of 
hope, which are the shining .stars? 

Betsy (bravely sad). Yea, daughter; on all that 
sleep abo\e and o'er many that sleep beneath the 
sod the bright stars shine — and shall shine! for the 
light of hope dieth never. 

Bettikins (telling over the points with delicate ges- 
tures). Justice, which is like a lifted arm; and Cour- 
age, which is a foot stepped out; and Loyaltv, and 
Faith, and Hope. Indeed, Mother, 't is' like good 
Christian in the "Pilgrim's Progress" — and hath it 
not aiiieaning over all, and holding all the points in 
one, like the man that is armed with good armor? 

Betsy. Truly, daughter, there is such a meaning 
— for the name of the whole star is Liberty. Without 
Liberty, all the other virtues die away — Faith and 
Loyalty and Courage and Justice, and Hope dies too, 
Hope, last of all, when Liberty is taken awav. 

Bettikins tslill upholding the wand). Oh,'Mumsy, 
now I know wh>- !n\' dear soldier father is gone to 
fight for ( xeneral Washington. It is for Libertv, and 
for all that the stars mean, shining up yonder, where 
C,od li\-es! (She goes to the window, pointing to Ihe 
sky. .is she does so. her eye catches sight of some- 
thing in Ihe street.) Oh, Mumsy! It is Cieneral Wash- 
ington! Here in our street ! .And dear t ncle Morris 
is with him! And oh, Mumsy, they 're coming into 
our \-en,- own house! 

Betsy (rising quickly and glancing out of the win- 
do',e). 'T is so; 't is so! Thou hast sharp eyes, Betti- 
kiris mine, who hast seen the general no more than 
twice in th\- life! (She turns excitedly to Ihe mirror, 
giving a touch to hair and jaunty cap. Tlie knocker 
sounds.) Hie thee to the door, child, and admit 
the gentlemen. 

(Bettikins goes lo the door, left fore, while Betsy 
continues before the mirror. Slie turns to greet her 
guests as Robert Morris, clothed as a colonial gentle- 
man, enters with Washington, in uniform.) 

AIoRRis (robustly). Crood morrow to thee, Betsv. 
I bring a guest whose face all know. General Wash'- 
ington, 't is Mistress Betsy Ross. 

(Betsy curtsies, and Washington gravely bows.) 

\\".\shington. I am pleased, indeed, to greet 
friend Morris's friend — and the widow of a valiant 

Betsy. Ye are welcome to m\- house, ^■e do nie 

Washington. I trust the hour is not against us. 
'T is early, but our affair is earl\-. 

Morris. Rest you as to that. General. .Mistress 
Betsy is up with the sun — or, if I mistake not (turn- 
ing to Bettikins, whom he roundly kisses), she hath 
here a bluebird to waken her! Rliss Bettikins, thou 
shouldst know the great general. 

(Bettikins curtsies gravely to Washington, who, smil- 
ing, takes her hand and kisses it in courtly fashion.) 

Pui-.iL Library 

, s^::^ 


III-. \1AKI\(. ()!■ IHK Kl.AC. 


VVAsHlNCiTDN. A soklit-r's daugliler in llie suUiit-r's 
blue (wilh feeling). Ah, 1 know well, well, thou 'rl 
precious to thy mother. . . 

Bettikins (wilh childish dignity). I am the fairy 
Cerulea; and every night, with niN' wand, 1 light the 
stars that shine fair and bright on all the fields where 
soldiers lie. My father is a soldier. 

Washington. A fairy, in sooth, thou art. Yes, 
yes, 't is just such fairies that do light the stars that 
brighten soldiers' nights — the blessedest of fairies! 

Betsy {offeringchairs). Prithee, be seated, General. 

(Washington seats himself, Bettikins drawing near 
his chair. Morris approaches the tabic, where Betsy 
lakes up the piece worked with the Washington arms to 
show him. He dons his spectacles and examines it.) 

Betsy (to Morris). 'T is ready for the chair, just 
as you did command, if so be it suit. 

MoKRis (admiringly). What think you. General — ■ 
the stars and bars of the arms of Washington for the 
council chair. Is 't not a fair piece of work, and 
worthy the skill of Mistress Ross? Nay, Betsy, I 
never saw any belter work. 

Washington. .\nti 1 never saw the mullets bet- 
ter done, out of England or the Continent. Vou do 
me honor. Mistress Ross. 

Betsy {curtsying, with obvious pleasure). Which 
every .'American must ever do — with the best that is 
in him. 1 do but give my best. 

Morris. Ah, tieneral, 1 told you Betsy Ross is 
the very woman for our need. Betsy, 't is another 
business we come upon to-day — more in meaning 
than even the working of our general's heraldry. 
(He adjusts his glasses, pulls a paper from his pocket, 
and steps forward.) The Colonies are now the I'nited 
States of America — as our great Declaration and the 
Liberty Bell proclaimed, nigh a year ago. Such a 
nation as we now are must have a flag, symbolizing 
its union and its parts, thirteen States in one. Here 
(he hands a sketch to Betsy) is its design, drawn by the 
very hand of our general. And here is the descrip- 
tion, in the resolution made to be presented to Con- 
gress. (He reads.) "That the flag of the thirteen 
united States be thirteen stripes, alternate red and 
white; and that the union be thirteen stars, white, in 
blue field, representing a new constellation." So it 
reads, Betsy, and so lies the plan. 'T is you must 
make the flag, a task, 1 believe, that will cause >our 
name to be honored in our country as long as this 
banner shall float above it. 

Betsy (who has been studying the design). Nay, 1 
have never made a flag. 1 don't know whether 1 can; 
but I '11 try. 

Washington (smiling). And with that spirit and 
with such skill as we have seen, we doubt not the 

Morris. Not a bit, not a bit.' Trust Betsy for ii. 

Bettikins. Oh, Munisy can make anything — 
just as easy! .And 1 'II help, too! 

Washington. Indeed thou wilt, by thy very 
smiling presence. Cerulea shall be the fairy god- 
mother of the flag — heaven-blest in her blue. 

Betsy (at the wardrobe, drawing forth a piece of red 
and white banded cloth). Here is a jjiece of stripe that 
should make the foundation. (She throws it over the 
back of the sofa, which she wheels otit from the wall, .vo 
arranging the cloth that it shows the thirteen stripes of 
the flag. .Morris stands at one side, adjusting his ghis.'ies 
to observe. Washington moves his chair to see to better 
advantage. The sofa is thus the center of the picture. 
Betsy drapes a piece of blue for the field.) 

Betsy. "V is thus the union should lie (she glances 
at the diagram), breaking the stripes, seven of the 
short and si.\ of the long. (She pins on the blue.) 

Bettikins [running to the table, whence she picks 
up the piece of silk from which the star has been cut). 
And I know how the stars must be cut, all in one 
stroke! (She returns to where Washington is seated, 
folding the cloth to show him. Betsy meantime is deftly 
cutting stars from the white cloth and pinning them in a 
circle on the blue field, Morris watching her.) 'T is 
folded so, and so, and so; and then 'l is cut here, and 
the star falls out and leaves a star's window — see! 
(She opens the cloth, showing the star-shaped hole; then 
lays this on Washington's knee.) .And 1 know the 
meaning of the star, too, and of all its points! 

Washington (smiling down at her). Who should 
know it better than the fairy Cerulea? .\nd what is 
the meaning? 

Bettikins. This is the arm of Justice, and these 
two, which are like feet, are Courage and Loyalty, 
and the other arm is Faith, and the head is Hope, 
looking upward. (.She looks up into Washi7igton' s 
face.) .\nd the whole star is a soldier, like my father, 
and it means Liberty. 

Washington (thoughtfully). Aye, child, it means 
Liberty — and sacrifice for Liberty. 

Bettikins (indicating the portrait). That is my 
soldier father, in the i)icture up there. Oh, .Mumsy, 
the flag is all done! Stars and Stripes and a blue sky 
for the stars to shine in! Oh, it is beautiful! [She 
runs to her mother, who stands back awaiting the judg- 
ment of her guests.) 

Morris. There it is, General; done in a trice. 
.\nd who can \ie with our Betsy Ross? 

Washington (rising). .Aye, it is a flag to move 
men's hearts. Its stars are indeed a new constella- 
tion, a very crown of heaven, shining at the zenith 
of Hope. Its bars are the staves of a new song, musi- 
cal with the cheers which bra\e men give when they 
make of their bodies the bulwark of their country's 
right, llnder the folds of this flag .America will fight 
her way to freedom, and under its folds, in good time, 
( '.od willing, she will fight fo'r and win the freedom of 
other men in other lands, so long as tyrants rise to 
curse this world. (He turns to^card Betsy, with Betti- 
kins beside her, changing in manner from the austere- 
to the gentle.) But best of all, I like the poetry this 
little maid hath put into the meaning of the flag. 
She is, in truth, the fairy godmother of her country's 
standard, lighting its stars with Faith and Hope and 
making them to shine for Freedom. (He advances 
toward Betsy and takes her hand.) Xor to you, 
Mistress Ross, can I den\- a slender ray of this bright 
hoix" — even though its <lisappointment must make 
your grief more bitter. .Major Ross is long reported 
among the lost — even among the identified and 
buried. But mistakes occur. There had seemed to 
be no doubt; biU yesterday word came of the at- 
tempted escajx" of a prisoner in the hands of the 
enemy, apparent l\ an officer, of the name of Ross. 
I( is uncertain rinuor; but (indicating the flag) — 
ihc stars bid us hope. 

Betsy [bravely). He gave himself. General, freely, 
and I him freely gave — for freedom. But, oh, 1 have 
never denied myself the right to hope! — I and my 
Bettikins! (.S7;c clasps Bettikins. Morris wipes his 
glasses. Washington turns meditatively. The moment's 
silence is broken by the sound of rapid hoof-beats draw- 
ing near, and shrd'iug abruptly as they approach. 
Bettikins breaks from her mother and runs to the 

Bettikins. Oh, Mumsy! It is a soldier! It is 



my soldier father! (The door opens vioUntly, and a 
soldier in tattered buff and blue enters.) 

Washington {advancing and seizing his hand). 
Major Ross! 

Ross, (ieneral! (Then seizing Betsy and Bettikins 
in one embrace.) Betsy! Bettikins! Free at last! 
Home at last ! 

(Washington raises his hand in military salute. .1 
great .American /iig is lowered taking ilic place of the 
usual curtain to the scene. The orchestra strikes up 
" The Star-spangled Banner!") 


There is a word that should l^e said about the use of 
history' in masques and pageants. It is seldom pos- 
sible to follow the historic events precisely as they 
are recorded. It is necessarj' to modify- them so as to 
give a good picture or a telling drama. For example. 
in "The Making of the Flag," the officer kinsman of 
Betsy Ross is represented as her husband returned 
from captivity after he had lieen thought dead, 
whereas tradition tells us that Betsy Ross was realh' 
a widow. Of course, too, there is a kind of anachron- 
ism in representing the making of the flag imme- 
diately after the signing of the Declaration, for the 
former event came in May, 1777, nearly a year after 
the latter. These things, however, are not real per- 
versions of what is historically significant. The flag 
was a natural consequence of the Declaration, and it 
is the spirit of Betsy Ross that is the thing we wish 
impressed upon our imaginations. Wherever his- 
tory is memorable, it is because of some inner and 
lasting meaning of the event, and it is just for the 
sake of the meaning, as we have said, that celebra- 
tions are observed. 



Scene: A greensward, with greenery background. 
Musical Preldde, to which there enters the 
Chorus — Youths in uniform. Maidens in the symbolic 
costumes of the States. They sing: 

Onward, comrades! Onward, brothers! 

Onward, men, who own the name! 
Kindle ye the fires of freedom 

That your sons may guard the Hame! 

Strike the tinder! Touch the faggot! 

Let the blaze be tempest-fanned. 
Till the wonder-light upleaping 

Shine in splendor o'er the land! 

Lord of Battles! King, Redeemer! 

Master of the lives of men! 
Lift the banners of the righteous 

That thy Law prevail again! 

Thou command them! Thou sustain them! 

Through the years that are to be, 
Till as glass their souls be molten 

In the love of liberty! 

Flag Dance. Streams of youthful dancers enter, 
each alternate stream in red or white, interweaving 
in figures suggestive of rippling stripes. They part, 
and from the center there enters the blue — children 
in fluffy blue dresses, large bows of white indicating 
the stars. In the semicircle formed by the bands oi 
red and white, they dance their star dance. Then, 
to gra\er music, all form in a tableau, the Flag. 


Take a square piece of paper or cloth and fold it in 
half; then fold it again so that it will resemble Pig. I. 
Fold it again on the dotted line so that, when 
folded, it will be as in Fig. II. Fold it over once 
more, again on the dotted line: when it should have 
the shape of Fig. III. Then cut it as shown in the 
dotted line in p'ig. Ill, and you will have a symmet- 
rical five-pointed star. 

Betsy Ross's little house is standing to-day. 
Everything around it has changed — even the name 
of the street itself is different. Tall, five-storv 

buildings look down on both sides upon the little 
two-storied structure, with its shingled roof and 
dormer-window, which is now cared for by the 
.\nierican-Flag House and Betsy Ross Memorial 
.\ssociation. The front room is used for the sale of 
small Hags and other souvenirs, the proceeds of 
which are devoted to the work of the Association, and 
the room back of this, in which the first flag was 
made, has been restored to the general appearance 
it mtist ha\'e presented during the lifetime of Betsy 



Peggy sa\s that, when she 's grown, 
She 'U ha\-e a dress, her \er>- own. 
Like thistle-down: and even.- night 
Will dance with feet so fain.' light. 
All the boys will like her, too. 
That is what Peg sa>-s she '11 do. 

Kath'rine sa>s her first ball-gown 
Will be the prettiest in town. 
She '11 choose her colors from the sky 
U'hen the sun 's about to die; 
Dainty pink and palest blue, 
Rose and green and purple, too. 

\\'hen I am old and ha\'e my wa>', 
I '11 have no colors of the day, 
But a dress of thin gold light. 
Like the moon we saw last night; 
Pile m)- hair up on my head 
(irandly — They 'II forget it 's red. 

Mine 's the finest gown, you 'II see; 
And a prince will come for me. 





It is possible to make quite a useful little tent 
out of newspapers. Secure a pole that is six or 
seven feet long; a piece of bamboo will do well. 
Near the upper part of this, wrap several thick- 

nesses of stout twine. Then from this part run 

lengths of twine. These should he carried out in 

tent fashion, and at the end they are fixed to 

wooden pegs driven into the ground. In all, 

there might he eight or ten of these lengths. Cut 

the newspapers into pieces of 

a suitable size, and with paste. 

fasten them over the twine. 

One border of the paper should 

be turned round the twine, 

the edge of the next bit being 

stuck just o\'er the part that 

is turned round. .'\n open 

space should be left to act as 

a doorway to the tent. Tci 

make the paper waterproof. 

go over it with a brush dipped 

in linseed-oil. The paper 

will then stand quite a fair 

amount of rain. 

It is easy to gather up the tent b\- taking out 
the central pole and loosening the pegs. The 
paper then falls around the pole, something like a 
giant umbrella, and it is easily set up again. 


One of the commonest experiences of the camper 
is that of finding that the matches are so daili]! 
that the\' will not strike. .All this trouble ma\' 
be avoided by providing oneself with wateriirool 
matches. These are easily made in the following 

wa>-. Melt a few lumps of candle-wax in an old 
can on the sto\e, .-\llow this to cool a little and 
then, before it has set, dip the matches in, one at 
a time. Treat the heads and about half of the 
wooden part. Place the matches on one side to 
cool. ^ latches treated in this simple manner 
have been soaked in water for man>- hours, and 
the\- have ignited as readih as those which were 
perfectly dry. The onl\- diflerence is that, in 
striking, it is needful to do so a trifle more firmh' 
so as to get through the thin film of wax surround- 
ing the head. When once the flame starts, the 
match burns very readily, owing to the wax 
which had adhered to the wood. Any ordinary 
matches can be treated in the manner described. 


Now and again, when camping out, it is not 
possible to get a sufficiency" of large pieces of wood 
to make a good fire. An excellent plan, by means 
of which a fine fire may be made out of small 
brushwood or even leaves, is shown in the pictures. 
In the first place, a stout upright is driven a 
little wa>- into the ground. This might be four 
or five feet in height. .\t the base of this is 
placed a similar piece of wood, lying in a horizon- 

tal position along the ground, see figure I. Then 
start to pile up the stuff for the fire around the 
.stakes in the manner indicated in figure 2. Take 
special care to press the material down well, as 
the closer it is packed, the longer the fire will last 
and the better it will be. When the heap is 
completed, both stakes are carefully pulled out. 
There will then be an air pas.sage right through 
the heart of the mass. 

To set the fire going, it is onU- ncedliil to place 
some lighted paper, or any dr\ material, at the 
lower opening. At once the flames start to roar 




up through it in a \igorotis st\ic. and the tire 
gradually spreads luitil the whole mass is glowing 
red with heat. 


When the weather is bad. canipers often find 
that the tent is none too warm. This is especialK- 
the case at night. Here is a good wa>' of heating 
a tent which is well worth following. Open up in 
the ground a hole which is slighth' less in diame- 
ter than an old metal pail which will lie used to 



fit over the top. . Let the hole go flown to the 
depth of about two feet. .\t the end "I I hi- da\ . 
gather all the glowing embers from the canip-hrc 
and put them into this hole thai has been made, 
pressing down well. Then in\erl the pail and 
place it over the hole. .\ few sods ot earth place<l 
round the part where the [)ail rests on the ground 
will keep in all smoke and fumes. In a lew mo- 
ments the bucket will start to radiate heat, and this 
will be maintained for man>' hours. The next 
night the hole nia>- be cleared out and filled up 
again with glowing material. 


If you want a good sto\e for \our camp, this is 
easy to make with simple materials. First get a 
barrel or a box that will stand three or four feel 
in height. In the bottom of this cut an opening 
about a foot wide, and a little more than this from 
lop to bottom. At the upper part of the barrel 
make a hole, into which a chimnex' is to Ik- fixed. 
This chimne\' could be made out of a piece of 
sheet-iron bent round, ore\en a number of tomato- 
cans would do. These ran be fitted together if 
the tops and bottoms are melted awa>- on a fire. 

To make one fit into the other, open out each tin 
a little at the lower part with a pair of pliers. 

When >ou ha\e \our barrel or box set up. \ou 
should plaster it all o\er with clay. If you can- 
not get good clay, mix earth with water or use 
iiuid from the ri\er iKittom. In an\- case, rover 
the box completely with the substance, putting it 
on eight or ten inches thick all over. When the 
w hole surface is co\ered, light a fire of dr\- stuff in 
the box. Make a good blaze and keep this going 
for some hours. Of course, quite soon the barrel 
or box burns away, and the fierce heat then bakes 
the clay or mud into a hard 
coating. Your stove will 
then be finished and you will 
' TI find it extremely useful. 

Vou can toast an\thing at 
the opening, and it is a fine 
place to cook fish or similar 
food. On a cool evening it 
is pleasant to sit around the 
sto\ e, as it gi\"es out a great 
deal of heat. 


It is not always eas\' to get a 
fire to burn well in the ojxmi, 
cspecialK if there is a strong 
wind blowing. Under such 
conditions it is a good plan 
to build u|i a special fireplace such as you see in 
th(- sketch. Cut some sods of earth and pile these 
on the lop of each other at the hack and on either 
side of a space which is just about the width of 
\iMir pan or kettle. When you ha\f built up to the 
height of about a foot, or a little more, place two 
or three bars of iron from side to side acmss the 
topopening. It alwa\'spa>s lo take thes<' bars with 
\ou when \c)ii are camping out. .\dfl one more 
sod all around, and \our fireplace is read\- for 
Gather together the material for the fire and 
iml it in the ii]«-ning. then place the kctth' or the 


A i;.\Ml'l.Nl.->l(l\ E 



pan in position, and set a match to the stuff. 
Soon \'ou will have a splendid little fire going that 
will roar awa\' no matter how wind\- the position 
ma\' he. If \'ou want to make the fire extra 

S(»\ll-. IIINIS KOk t'A.MI'KKS 



Vlroiig, hold a pk-iv ul Imaid, uv f\fii llf\^^|lallt■l 
in front of the opening, so that it is iiearK' covered, 
save for a httle crack at the bottom. The draught 
>ou will then get is tremendous, and >ou can 
soon ha\e a tire that is almost as hot as a black- 
smith's. These little fires are splendid lor roast- 
ing potatoes, and indeed for cooking almost any- 
thing that >ou would be likel\- to have on a 
picnic. If you cannot get sods of earth, you can 
make use of stones in \ery much the same way. 


.'\ HANDY little weather-teller, which may be 

taken into camp, is made in the following way. 

(iet a glass jar with a tight-fitting cork. Then 

obtain a test-tube which is about the same length 

as the height of the jar. In the center of the 

cork make a hole in which the test-tube will fit 

upside down. Color some water 

by adding red ink, and almost 

fill the jar. Then fill the tube 

to about a third of its capacity. 

Now in.sert the open end ot the 

tube in the water in the jar 

without the admission of an\' 

air. This can be done b>- holfl- 

ing the finger over the tube and 

not taking it aw'ay until the end 

is immersed. Bore a few holes 

in the cork, and the barometer 

is complete. 

The atmosphere pressing on 
the water in the jar will affect 
the height of the fluid in the lube. \\ hen the air 
is dry and heavy, the water in the tube mounts 
upward; if it is moist and light, the opposite 
happens. In the first case, fine weather is to be 
expected; in the latter instance, unsettled condi- 
tions are to be looked for. To see the position of 
the fluid in the tube from day to day, an india- 
rubber ring may be employed. If this is not 
available, a piece of cotton could be tied round 
the glass tube to mark the le\el of the barometer 
Irom time to time. 

This home-made weather-teller will be foun<l to 
be very reliable. It is only needful to keep il in 
an upright position to ha\e it in good working 
order. If at any time the water should be spilled, 
the jar can be refilled with plain water. The 
coloring of the liquid is onl>- to make it more eas\ 
to obser\e the level of the lliiid. 


H.-\VE you e\er been outdoors and wanted to 
change your plates, or something has gone wrong 
inside the camera and you have felt that you 

\vouUl gi\e .ilniiisl MiiN tiling In be abli' to a 
dark-room? Net there ma>- not be a house within 
many miles. If you ha\e an overcoat or a rain- 
coat, there is no need to worry, for by following 
this plan, >ou can vith safety do almost an> thing 
\ou find necessar\-. Sit down on the ground and 
spread the ct>at, outside up, over \our legs. Tuck 
the borders of the coat under the legs at the sides 
and also beneath the feet. Put the camera or 
the dark slide under the coat, about as far down 
as the knees. Then insert the hands in the outer 
ends of the sleeves and push them inward. 
Tuck the collar end of the coat about the middle 
of the body, and bend slightly forward, so as to 
exclude all the light. You will then find that )-ou 
can carr\' on an>' operations >'ou wish in perfect 
safet>-. Of course, the whole thing nmst be done 
by touch, but a photographer soon grows cle\er 
with his fingers. He knows by the "feel" which 
is the side of the plate bearing the emulsion. .As 
well, too, he is familiar with the workings of the 
inside of his camera, and can usually right mat- 
ters without actually using his eyes. .At an\- 
rale the plan mentioned abo\e is worth tr\ing 
when a sudden emergency arises. 


When baskets containing food are placed on 
the ground, all kinds of creeping insects soon 
make their wa\- to the eatables. By using a sim- 
ple device, this trouble may be entirely prevented. 

Get a tin can that 
is not less than two 
inches deep. The 
lower part of an 
emptv' salmon or 
fruit can would do 
very well. In the 
bottom of this bore 
a hole through 
which a long piece 
of wire is thrust. 
This wire is fixed 
into place and the 
can made water 
tight b>' applying a 
little solder where 
it enters the hole. 
Bend the wire at 
both ends into the 
form of hooks. Fill the can with water and hang 
the de\ice from the branch of a tree as shown in 
the picture. Attach the food basket to the lower 
hook. No creeping insects of any kind can reach 
the inside of the basket, which is perfectly pro- 
tected by the barrier of water in the can. 

A Ul'.LL I'koIl'XTl'.D K.\SKET 



Authors of "The Lucky Sucpence." "Beatrice of Denewood," "\'ive la France!" etc. 


Peg Travers. joint heir with her brother Jack to the estate of Denewood, in Germantown, which they are too poor 
to keep up and have rented as a school for girls, receives a letter from her brother, an officer with the A. E. F.. 
saying that a relative of the famih'. a French girl named Beatrice de Soulange. has come to him asking for assistance, 
and he has thought it best to send her to America. Her brother. Louis de Soulange. an officer in the French arm\', 
in an aeroplane flight over the lines, has disappeared and is "missing." Peg. who lives with her aunt in the lodge at 
Denewood, is talking this news over with her cousin, Bett_\- Powell, when the French girl unexpectedly arrives — a 
girl of their own age, deeph' interested in the Denewood books and the history of their house. Her first desire is to 
see the lucky sixpence, their family talisman, and when she is told that it has been lost for a centurj- she is astounded 
at the girls' indifference and declares her belief that with it was lost the luck of Denewood. Full of gratitude for 
their whole-hearted hospitality, she determines to hnd the sixpence and restore the luck of the house. Beatrice 
plans to hunt for it. and. to that end. is anxious to become a pupil at Maple Hall, as the school at Denewood is 
called. On her admission to the school Beatrice begins her search for the sixpence. Aliss Maple discovering this 
and thinking it a waste of time forbids day-scholars to go above the first floor of Maple Hall. Peg is vastly 
excited by a letter from Jack asking for a description of the Soulange ring and warning her to stand guard over Be 
lest unauthorized news of her brother rouse false hopes. Shortly after, a young man, who announces himself as 
Captain Badger of the British Army, calls, saying that he has news of Louis which he will give to no one but Be. 
With Jack's letter in her mind. Peg refuses to let him see Be. The next day Betty, from the living-room, sees him 
return to the lodge. He mistakes her for Be. and Peg persuades her. in order to obtain news of Louis, to impersonate 
her cousin and. seated outside -the spring-house, hear what he has to sa\'. while Peg. concealed inside, could also find 
out what the stranger proposed. The two girls learn that Captain Badger is in search of three hundred thousand 
francs to ransom Louis de Soulange. whom he declares to be held b\- a band of robbers in France. He assumes that 
Be can supply this money from a hidden strong-box. Betty, posing as Be, insists upon having time for considera- 
tion. He finally gives her till the next day. and Peg tries to consult Mr. Powell, but finds he is ill. Meanwhile. Be, 
ignorant of this crisis in her affairs, has gone to search the spring-house for the entrance to a secret passage she 
believes may be there. She unexpectedly discovers it. and. hearing some one coming, conceals herself in it. She 
examines the passage and finds it blocked b\- a solid partition at the other end. Then, retracing her steps, she 
tries to reenter the spring-house, but the trap-door refuses to open. 



It was for a moment onh' that despair took po.-;- 
session of Beatrice when she found herself trapped 
in the passage under the spring-house. 

"There mus' be some wa>' out," she said to 
herself, and lifted her head bra\eh'. 

She was not the sort of a girl to become panic- 
stricken and so to lose her wits as to be helpless. 
Her experiences during the grim days of the con- 
flict in France had made her self-reliant. On 
man>' occasions she had been the one person in the 
old chateau who had remained calm when rumors 
of the approach of the Ciermans threatened lo 
demoralize the entire household. Not until the 
walls had begun to tumble about their ears under 
a \icious bombardment, did Beatrice lose control 
of those about her. Four years of war had 
strengthened in her the courage traditional in the 
Soulange famih, and the circumstances of her 
present position ,ser\ed to stimulate her into 
quickly setting about the task of freeing herself. 

"There mus' be some way out," she repeated, 
more positiveh' than before, and once again 
pushed vainl>' on the little door abo\e her head. 
Then she collected herself and tried to reason out 
a possible explanation of her predicament. How 

could it be that the trap, which opened so easil>' 
from abo\e, seemed absoluteh immo\able from 

"There mus' be a secret lock," she concluded, 
and with this thought in mind, she passed her 
hand o\er the under surface of the flooring, but 
her ringers could not e\en find the cracks in the 
masonry where the square block of stone ritted 
into the opening. 

"If I am to get out, it mus' be at the other 
end," she murmured, and scrambled down to the 
bottom of the passage. 

She made her wa\- back through the tunnel, 
climbed the narrow stair, and stood once more 
before the shado\v>- barrier. With all her strength 
she pressed against the heav\ planking, but it 
resisted her utmost etTorts. Satisfied that noth- 
ing could be gained by this method, she again 
sought a handle which she might turn; but as 
before, her ringers found nothing of the sort, and 
fear crept into her heart as the con\iction grew 
that this was not a door, but a stout partition. 

For a moment or two B6 was near to giving up; 
but with a determined shake of her head, she 
re|)eated to her.self the words that had gixen her 
courage before. 

"There mus' be some way out," she murmured, 
and again set herself to finding a means of escape. 




High above her, and quite beyond reach, was 
a narrow slit in the masonry, which admitted a 
pale, uncertain light. Beatrice looked up at it, 
but could see no hope in that direction. It might 
serve as a \ent to the soinid of her \oice if she 
called for help; but the girl, as yet, had no inten- 
tion of seeking aid and by so doing betray the 
secret of the passage. 

"I shall 'ave to be very hungry before I shout," 
she told herself determinedly. 

Her thoughts turned back to the square trap 
leading into the spring-house, and she made a 
half-in\oluntary movement as if to go back 
tliere to try once more to open it; but although 
she felt sure that a means had been pro\ided for 
an exit at that point, she was certain that, without 
a light, her efforts would be futile. 

This led her to a speculation as to why the 
passage had been built at all. Of course, there 
had been a purpose behind its construction. It 
was not meant as a place for children to play in 
nor an interesting and mysterious tunnel used 
only to surprise people. Probably it had been 
planned originally as a means of sending a mes- 
senger to secure assistance in case the house was 
attacked by Indians. 

But an enemy having discovered the entrance 
through the spring-house, it became necessary to 
put up a barrier in the jiassageway itself. Yet it 
was equally' necessary that a friend should have 
a clear road into the house, or the tunnel would be 
of little service. 

So arguing to herself, Beatrice arrived at the 
conclusion that a means of getting through the 
solid planking must exist, and she tried to re- 
member all she had read of the passage in the 
Denewood books. 

"M>' great ancestress called it the 'Mouse's 
Hole'" she said half aloud, then chuckled softly 
to herself as a new idea entered her mind: it was 
a little toad that had showed her the way in; 
perhaps a mouse would show her the way out. 

"If I sit very still, per'aps one will come," she 
thought, but after a few moments of silence she 
grew restless. "What should I do if I were a 
mouse?" she asked herself, and then answered her 
own question: "I should find a crack under the 

She knelt and felt along the bottom of tlie 
planking. Yes, there was an inch or more of 
space between it and the top step. "But I am 
too big a mouse to get out there," she told her- 
self; >-et at that moment she made a discovery. 

This top step was considerably wider than the 
others and, instead of being stone, was wood. 

"Now why is that?" Beatrice asked herself, 
realizing that here was a significant fact that 
encouraged investigation. 

Eagerly she felt along the edge just underneath 
the barrier, and presently her fingers came in 
contact with what, after a moment or two, she 
concluded must be hinges. For an instant she 
was puzzled, then with a cry of surprise and 
delight, she seized the front of the step and pulled 
upward. With astonishing ease it lifted and, 
like the lid of a box, folded back against the heavy- 
planking that barred her way. 

"Ah, now per'aps the hole is big enough for 
such a mouse as I," Beatrice said excitedly, and 
started to crawl under. 

But, to her surprise, she found another step 
leading down and, after that, still another, so that. 
b>' bending a little, she was able to pass beneath 
the heavy planks; and in a pace or two she again 
found stone steps going up. 

"Had I not thought of what a mouse would do, 
I should still be trapped," Beatrice murmured as 
she looked ahead, where she was relieved to find 
that there was more light. And, with a feeling 
that her path was now clear, she hurried on 
rapidly, conscious that she was safely inside the 
walls of the big house and ascending to the second 

Again the passage grew dark, and presently she 
stood on a level space. In front of her was a 
wall of blackness, and she stopped, putting forth 
her hands before she took a hesitating step. Then 
suddenly she halted abruptly, for, with extraor- 
dinary clearness, the sound of girls' voices came 
to her. 

"My dear, I did n't have your algebra," one 
said; and anotheranswered rather pettishly, "Well, 
somebody has it!" 

"It 's probably downstairs in the study," the 
first girl replied. "Come on. The dormitory is 
no place for your books anyhow, my child." 

Beatrice heard the girls go out of the room, and 
then all was silent again. 

"I am behind that fireplace," she said to herself. 
The sound of human voices had brought her a sense 
of being back in the world again, and the anxiety 
she had felt in the passage was gone. She smiled 
as she took another step forw-ard. It would be 
a great tale to tell Peg. 

"But I 'm not out yet," Beatrice reminded 
herself, and at that moment her outstretched hand 
came in contact with another barrier. 

But this time she had no difficulty. At her 
first pressure, the door opened and let in a broad 
beam of light. Beatrice, blinking, looked into the 
dormitory, which had been the nurseiy in the 
old da\-s of Denewood. 

Her first impulse was to dart out of the passage 
with a deep breath of thankfulness; but an instant's 
reflection showed her that it would be wise not to 
appear too abruptly. If there were any girls in 




the room she would probably Irighlea vheiii iiUo 
hysterics and at the same time betra\' her secret. 

She listened and, hearing nothing, peejx-d into 
the room. It was empty and, pulling the door 
tight shut behind her, she stepped through the 
fireplace. She was free! 
But she was now face 
to face with another 
difficulty. II" she met 
any of the teachers, she 
would seemingh- stand 
convicted of disobeying 
Miss Maple's rule that no 
day-scholars should go 
upstairs in Maple Hall; 
while if she ran hastily 
down to the big hall, the 
girls there could not fail 
to see her and draw the 
same inference. 

For a moment she hes- 
itated, then, forgetting 
that Miss Maple had 
gone to town, she deter- 
mined to go to her at 
once, plead guilty of hav- 
ing broken the rule and 
take the consequences. 

With this in mind, she 
crossed the corridor to 
the door of Miss 
Maple's sitting-room 
and knocked. 

A \-oice bade her come 
in and she entered, ex- 
pecting to see the school- 

Instead, a round-facetl, 
red-haired little woman 
was standing in front of 
a skirt-board set on the 
backs of t\vo chairs, 
sponging a dress that was 
spread out upon it. She 
nodded brightly at the 
sight of Beatrice. 

"Looking for Miss 
Maple, honey?" she asked briskly. "M\', but \ou 
're dusty! You 'd better let me brush you off." 
She picked up a whisk and started to work with- 
out waiting for consent. "Now about Miss 
Maple — thank goodness she ain't here. She 's a 
good woman. There ain't a mite of doubt she 's 
the salt of the earth, but she does fidget me terri- 
ble. My land, I 'm just as much an old maid as 
she is, and I \e got just as good a right to be a 
fuss-budget. What was it >ou wanted, anyway? 
Ma\be I can find it for you. Miss Maple ain't 

coming back till after dinner. I know, because 
she paid me before she left. I 'm Hilt\- Corgas. 
Good old family, but come down in the world. 
I do sewin' b>- the day. 'T won't be a mite of 
trouble to get >-ou anything you 're looking for." 

"fif G.WE .\ G.\Se .\ND .\LM0ST DROPPED THt: KKAMIi" 

Hitty Gorgas was known all over Germantown 
as a fine worker, with a tongue that was hung in 
the middle and wagged both ways. In fact, it 
was openly said that if she had no one to listen 
to her, she talked to herself rather than be silent. 
And Hitty would have been the last lo deny this. 

Be had nevei- heard of Hitty, but her words 
had started a new train of thought in the girl's 
mind. Instantly her determination was taken and 
she entered the room, closing the door Ix-hind her. 

This was her chance to search for the si.xpence 




in Miss JMaple's own strongluild, and slio meant 
to seize it, no matter what penalty she incurred. 

"I am Beatrice de Soulange," she began abrupt- 
ly. "A cousin to this house." 

"Land sakes!" JMiss Hitty iiut in, "1 am glad to 
see yon. 1 know all about you. I know all about 
e\"er\' famih' in Germantown. The \\ isters and 
the Darraghs and the Gummeys and the Morrises 
and the Carpenters and the Chews and e\ery- 
bod\'. I can tell >ou all about them from way 
liack — which was Tories in the Re\^olution and 
how they 've stood in every war since then." 

"In such case," said Be, "you know how the 
luck of this house was los'. I do not need to tell 
you. But >-ou do not know how much I want to 
find it, for when I do, I think my cousins come to 
their own 'ome to live, per'aps." 

Miss Hitty interrupted again. 

"You came to ask Miss Maple to let >ou look 
for it?" she asked; then, without waiting for an 
answer: "I see. Go right ahead, my dear. It 
won't do anybody a mite of harm." 

Be hesitated for a moment, then she shook her 

"No," she said firmly, "I did not come to ask. 
Already Miss Maple 'ave say it is a nonsense and 
forbid that we come up the stairs; but now I am 
here, I mean to hunt, because she is not at 'ome 
to stop nic. And you must not tell me that I 
may, so that it is all my own blame." 

Miss Hitt>- looked at the girl with dancing eyes. 

"I like your grit," she said. ".\nd I can tell 
you this much — I can feel for those who ain't so 
rich as they once was. I 'd a heap sight rather 
see the Traverses back in this place than have 
the school here, even though the school does put 
phuns in nu' pudding." 

With which words she set busily to work at 
her task of cleaning Miss Maple's gowns, and Be 
started her inspection of the room. 

It was not large, for Denewood, but it was 
pleasant and cosy. The walls were wainscoted 
to a height of four feet in white painted wood. 
Above this hung sconces, sexeral samplers, two 
silhouettes, and a miniature in wax. The furni- 
ture was chintz-covered mahogan>-. There was a 
card-table, a desk, a sofa, and various book-cases. 
The floor was made of narrow oak planks, with a 
jjattern around the edge fashioned from the same 
wood laid at a different angle. 

She pressed her hands down into the space 
between the back and the seat of the sofa, while 
Miss Hitty looked up in the air speculativeU'. 

"The chairs and that sofa have sure been done 
over a lot of times," she remarked. "It don't do 
a mite of harm to look at it; but I can't think 
there 's nnich left of the old piece 'cept the wood- 
work. That portrait > on 're looking at, they say 

was little Marjory Tra\ers. Peg always seemed 
to me to favor her." 

"It rfoo- look like Paig," Be asserted. She had 
taken the wax miniature from its hook and carried 
it to the light, where she thoroughly examined it. 
"It is very pretty." 

She hung it up again and went over to a sampler. 
The verse embroidered on it was: 

When I was young and in my Prime 
You see how well I spent my Time, 

And by my sampler you may sec 
What care my Mother took of me 

This was surmounted by a number of fearsome 
animals and signed, "Marjory Travers, her work," 
Avhile beneath the signature were bands made of 
various intricate stitches and patterns. 

"1 can embroider a little, but not so well as 
this," Be said. 

".\nd the child who made that was probably 
half >our age," Miss Hitty told her. "F"or my 
|iart, I 'm thankful that samplers had gone out of 
style before my day. Seein' that I have to spend 
most of my time now prickin' my fingers with a 
needle, it 's just as well I did n't learn to hate it 
before I had to. That other sampler is sort of in- 
terestin'." She nodded toward a darker corner. 
"I never could make out why she took to working 
samplers at her age, unless it was to teach one of 
the grand-babies." 

Be took from its nail the frame Miss Hitty 
had indicated and walked to the window w ith it. 
Its square of linen can\'as was elaborately worked 
with exquisitely fine stitches of silk in a design 
that came up solidly to a central wreath or vine, 
supported at the top by two doves and enclosing 
the following verse: 

You '11 seek and find To-morrow is your cry. 
In what far country doth To-morrow lie? 
\'our treasure here is safe beneath your eye. 
So blame not John while Jack goes blindly by. 
Beatrice Travers. i8i8. 

Be gave a gasp and almost dropped the frame. 

"What is it, child dear?" asked Miss Hitty, 
startled. "Do be careful. You came near lettin' 
that slip, and then a howl would have gone up! 
Though to be sure that sampler does belong to 
the family and not to the school." 

"But I 'ave foun' that sixpence!" cried Be, 
breathlessly, beginning to dance with excitement. 



The disco\ery that Mr. Powell was down with 
infiuenza disturbed Peg profoundh'. Back of all 
her schemes to cope with the wiles of CajHain 
Badger was the thought that, if the worst came 
to the worst, her Cousin Bart could take the mat- 




ter up and thrash it out with the Hritish officer 
man to man. Tlic fact that the captain had mis- 
taken the identity of Betty had been hailed b>' 
Peg as a favorable opportunity to elicit informa- 
tion upon which a wiser head than hers could act. 
Yet now that the information had been gained, 
there was no one to whom she could go for ad\ice. 

Unlike Betty, Peg was more and more inclined 
to the belief that the basis of Badger's tale was 
true, namely that Louis de Soulange was ali\e 
and was being held for ransom. Otherwise, the 
circumstances of his death would have been 
known by this time, for he had not fallen in a 
great battle where one man might i^erish unob- 
served. Nor could the Germans have anything 
to gain by keeping him a secret prisoner. Indeed, 
the more she thought of it, the more the complete 
silence following I^ouis's disappearance seemed to 
prove the truth of Badger's explanation. This 
growing con\'iction ga\'e Peg a realization of the 
seriousness of the problem she faced. A false step 
might doom Be's brother. The captain's actions 
were sufficiently significant, and to go contrar>' 
to his command for silence might force him to 
take desperate measures to guard his own safety. 

Peg walked slowly into the li\^ing-room and sat 
down again almost mechanically, entirely ab- 
sorbed in the perplexities of the situation. In the 
hall, Betty telephoned to her home in Chestnut 
Hill, and presently followed Peg in with the latest 
news of the invalids. 

"Aunt Polly says that everything is going as 
well as can be expected and that we are each to 
take six pills of Pulsatilla," she announced, sitting 
down on the sofa disconsolately. 

"I guess Aunt Polly is the only one who is 
enjoying it over there. She 'd rather take your 
temperature than go to a party. How 's Cousin 
Bart?" Peg ended. 

"The doctor has been in to see him and says 
there 's no doubt he has the flu," Betty replied. 
"He is n't to be disturbed about anything." 

"Of course not," Peg agreed. She had n't 
deluded herself by any false hopes in that 

"I 'm not sure I ought n't to go home and holj) 
nur,se the family," Betty went on. 

"They don't want you," said Peg. "If they 
did, they 'd have sent for you." 

"I know, but I think I ought to go an>how," 
Betty half insisted. "It does n't seem right that 
I should n't have anything to do, while — " 

"You would be just one more jierson for Cousin 
Elizabeth to worry about," Peg pointed out 
sensibly, ".^nd besides," she added significantly, 
"you have something to do here!" 

"You mean Captain Badger," Betty remarked, 
preparing for a struggle. 

"I certainly do!" Peg's tone was incisixe. 

"Well, I 'm through with him," Betty an- 
nounced positively. "You can't expect me to 
talk to a brigand all alone again. It was all 
very well when I did n't know; but now, I don't 
think Father and Mother would approve." 

"I don't beliexe they would, either," Peg 
agreed, "not under ordinar\' circumstances, an\- 
wa\-; but that 's something we can't find out, and 
these circumstances are so far from ordinary that 
I think they 'd say, 'Go.' You simply must meet 
him. I '11 be in the spring-house to protect you." 

This one thing, at least. Peg had determined 
upon: the appointment with Captain Badger 
must be kept; and if possible, he must lie per- 
suaded to gi\e them more time. 

"You would n't be any protection from a 
brigand!" Betty said scornfully. 

"He is n't going to brigand you," Peg repHed 
irr tably. "Have some sense, Betty. He '.s 
bound to be the polite English captain if he ex- 
pects to get anything out of you. The last thing 
he '11 do is to be disagreeable." 

"But what shall I tell him?" Bettj' argued. 

"I have n't thought of that yet," Peg confessed; 
"but there 's one thing we ha\e to do — we must 
find some way of con\incing him that we need a 
few more days' time." 

"He won't give them to us," Betty protested. 

"He 'II have to," Peg asserted, with more 
confidence than she felt. "Don't you see, Betty, 
if we 're right in our guess that he wants money 
for himself, he '11 stay as long as he thinks there 's 
a chance of getting it? All we have to do is to 
let him beliexe that sooner or later we 'II give in 
and tell him what he wants to know." 

"But we can't do it," Betty reiterated. "So 
what 's the use of ]iretending?" 

"If I could pretend as well as >ou can, I 'd love 
the chance," Peg said sweetly. 

"You can't flatter me into giving you your own 
way," Betty insisted. "Besides, we should n't 
have anything to do with him. From what you 
said yourself, he can't be trusted. If w-e knew, 
we would n't tell him where that strong-box is." 

"Oh, yes, we would, " Peg retorted. 

"But if you think he 's the man who kidnapped 
Louis de Soulange, he should n't ha\e a cent!" 
Betty protested warmly. "He 's a robber, yet 
you talk of giving him just what he wants." 

"Of course I do!" Peg answered impatiently. 
"He may be anything you like, but if he 's the 
only person who knows where Louis is. we '11 
have to deal with him, won't we, no matter how 
many times a brigand he is?" 

"It would n't be right," Bettx' maintained. 

"It would u'l be right to let Louis de Soulange 
die, would it?" Peg questioned. 



"1 think we should send for the police," Betty 
leturned half-heartedh'. 

"Yon know as well as I do that we dare n't do 
any such thing," Peg asserted. "What 's the use 
of talking like that? Suppose something hap- 
pened that this man Badger did n't like and he 
disappeared? Then where should we be?" 

"I don't believe anything he says, an>'\vay," 
Betty replied. 

"I believe some of it," Peg insisted. 

"1 believe he wants money," Betty agreed with 
a mocking laugh. "All the rest of the story is 
just made up; I know it is." 

"Are you so sure of that that you arc willing to 
tell B6 you just let him go?" Peg demanded. 
"Do you feel that we dare run the risk of letting 
something happen to Louis de Soulangc just 
because we think Captain Badger is n't telling 
the truth? I guess not!" 

"I don't know what to do," said Betty, help- 
lessly; "I don't know where the Soulange strong- 
box is, if there is one, and — and — oh, I think we 're 
in an awful mess!" 

"Oh, forget about us!" Peg cried angrily. 
"I 'm thinking of B6 and her brother." 

"Then why don't )ou tell her?" demanded 

"I 'm afraid of the shock. You know as well 
as I do the risk to her," Peg explained soberly. 
"I guess we '11 have to tell her sooner or later, onl>- 
I 'd like to make sure it 's neces.sar\' first. It 
would be an awful thing to raise her hopes, and 
then nothing come of it. If I were just sure, one 
way or the other! I beliexe I 'II go with you to- 
morrow, when you see this cajitain, and tell him 
we don't trust him, and then sec what he does. 
As a last resort, we can explain that >ou are not 
Be, then he '11 stay till he sees the real Be. That 
'sjvhat we '11 do, Betty," Peg went on as this new 
thought took shape; "we w(m't say that we don't 
believe him, but just the truth, that, when we 
found how terribly serious it was, we were worried 
— and we 'II be awfully synijiathetic, and — " 

"Of course, we don't know that he is n't just 
what he says he is," Belts' remarked thoughtfully, 
as this sudden enthusiasm of Peg's impressed 
itself upon her. "And he 's awfully handsome." 

"There 's no doubt of that!" agreed Peg, 
whole-heartedly. "And he has lovely manners, 
and — and — and — that 's what we 'II do! He may 
be a little cross; but when he sees how sorr>' we 
are, he '11 just have to be nice, and we 'II promise 
not to sa>- a word to anybod\', and then we '11 lake 
Be to see him, if we ha\c to, but we '11 ha\e gained 
that much time. Cousin Bart might be better 
even. So that 's .settled, is n't it?" 

"I think so," Betty said, nodding, "although I 
don't know linw he '11 take it." 

"Oh, he 'II take it all right," Peg insisted, jiniip- 
ing up. ".^nd now let 's find 86. She '11 think 
we 're lost. .And be careful. Not a word to her 


"I wonder where she is," Betty remarked, as 
tlicy hurried out of the room. 



In Miss Maple's sitting-room, Bc's announcement 
and her evident excitement stirred Miss Kitty's 

"Land .sakes, child! what are you talking 
about?" she cried, running to the girl's side. "Do 
be careful of that sampler! If you drop it, there 
will be trouble. Stop dancing and be sensible." 

With a great elTort, Be controlled herself, at 
least enough to stand still. 

"But I 'a\e found a piece of the sixpence," she 
repeated ecstatically. "You will .see — here!" 
She held the framed sampler in front of Miss 
Hitty's face, but the old lady, after a near-sighted 
glance at it, looked up at Be. 

"Say, there ain't nothing wrong with your 
head, is there?" she asked a trifle anxiously. 

"In nn- 'ead, wrong?" Be repeated, not under- 
standing Miss Hitty's idiom. "It is not in my 
'ead, but in the sampler. Look!" Again the 
seamstress gazed at the worked linen in Be's 
hand, while the girl with trembling fingers pointed 
to the embroidered wreath under the glass. 

"Do you not see it?" she went on excitedly. 
"There, among the stitches, is the chain. I 
catch the sparkle of it as I take it to the window. 
You do see, eh?" 

"Land sakes, I believe I do! " said Hitty, 
growing animated. "Why it 's all worked in 
among those leaves! My, ain't you the clever 
child? And there 's the bit of sixpence made to 
look like a flower. Say, that old Beatrice Travers 
was smart — I must say it. She was smart!" 

"We mus' take it out at once," Beatrice de- 
clared. "Where can I break the glass?" 

She was looking around for a suitable place to 
init her threat into execution when .Miss Hitty 
grasped her arm. 

"Softly, child! softly!" she admonished, "I 
don't know as we ought to dosucha thing. Maybe 
the Traverses won't like our ripping uj) that pretty 
old sampler. But anyhow, we don't have to 
break anything. We can open up the back." 

"More than anything do the Traxers want their 
sixpence," declared Be, jiositively. "It mus' 
come out! to bring back the luck of the 'ousc 
some one of the faniiK' mus' wear it. That >ou 

"I know . I lot of things," Mi---- 1 III I >' conceded ; 




"but gi\c me that frame before you smash it. 
Perhaps we ran take the coin out without ruin- 
ing everything." She took the frame from Be's 
rather reluctant liand, and turning it over, she 
deftly remo\ed with her scissors the small nails 
holding the back. Then she slipped the old 
sampler out and laid it on the table. Two heads 
bent over it anxiously to examine the ancient 
treasure more closely. 

Suddenh' Miss Hitty raised an excited face to 
Be. "I 'm blest if I don't believe you 're right, 
child!" she exclaimed. "The old lady that did 
this did n't intend that it should stay here forever. 
She 's fixed it so we can take the chain out, and 
the sampler won't be a mite the worse." 

\Mth careful fingers old Miss HittN" unfastened 
the clasp holding the two ends of the chain 
together and then considered the matter carefully. 

"I guess she meant to have it pulled from this 
end right through like a drawing-string," she went 
on, talking half to herself; "but after all these 
years, the silk may n't be none too strong. I 'm 
going to take my time over it." 

She sat down at the table and, with great 
deliberation, began to draw the chain through 
the silken loops, while Be watched her with 
breathless interest. Suddenly Miss Hitty uttered 
an exclamation of surprise. 

"What is it that it is?" demanded Be, transla- 
ting literally in her excitement. 

"Wonders will never cease!" cried Miss Hitt\-. 
"Old Lad\- Travers was a fo\-\- one, all right. 
Who 'd ha\e thought of such a thing! Look, 
honey; under the real chain she 's embroidered 
one, so that when we 've drawn the gold one clear, 
it will ne\er be missed." 

It took half an hour, but at the end of that time 
the sampler was back in its frame and hanging on 
the wall, and Miss Hitty and Be looked at each 
other with sparkling eyes. 

"Let me put it on you, child," said the old 
seamstress. "That 's the safest place for it. You 
don't want to lose it now you 've found it again." 

"Indeed no!" cried Be, and bent her head while 
Miss Hitty fastened the clasps securely at the 
back of her slender neck. 

"Now I mus' run and tell Paig!" Be exclaimed. 
"She will so wish to know about it and learn that 
the luck has come back. Oh, thank \-ou so much. 
Miss Hitty Gorgas." 

"Land sakes. child! you don't have to thank 
me," said the other. "I would n't have mis.sed 
this last half-hour for a farm. And say." she 
went on, a little more seriously, "I ain't much on 
superstitions, though there 's some of them it 's 
well to be careful of. But what I was thinking 
was this: ma\be the Travers' bad luck has been 
on account of that sixpence being lost, — I should 

n't wonder if that was so, — but I 've always 
thought there was a heap of luck in a pretty face, 
and you '\'e brought that to them, honey. Good- 
by. iny dear, I 'm glad you came in." 

"Good-by," answered Be, and hurried out into 
the hall, intent upon returning to the lodge in the 
shortest possible time. 

It was only as she turned the corner of the 
corridor and was about to run down the stairs 
that once more Beatrice came to a realization of 
the fact that she was on the forbidden second 
floor of Maple Hall, and in the great hall below 
her, walking toward the stairs with one of the 
girls, was Miss Thomas, Miss Maple's second in 
command. Quick as thought. Be turned back 
and instinctively sought a hiding-place in the 
dormitor\-. More than ever she must guard the 
secret of the passage and the explanation of her 
being on the prohibited floor. 

The dormiton.' was deserted, and she waited 
at the edge of the fireplace for a moment, hoping 
that Miss Thomas would pass; but in this she was 
disappointed. She heard footsteps stop and turn 
into the room, and mo\ed back softly into the 
passage, half closing the door in front of her. 

"M>- dear," Miss Thomas began, as they came 
in, "we 're absolutely alone here, and you can 
talk to me quite unreservedly." 

"I 'd just die if the other girls found out." a 
tearful \oice said; and Beatrice, who had no wish 
to overhear so secret a confidence, was in a quan- 
dani'. For an instant she was in half a mind to 
go out boldly. She was not at all afraid of Miss 
Thomas, or of Miss Maple, for that matter; but 
on calling to mind all the facts connected with 
the reco\er\- of the sixpence, she did not feel sure 
what the result might be if she made a clean 
breast of it to the head of the school. Of one 
thing, however, she felt certain: Miss Maple 
would not be inclined to deal leniently with one 
whom she did not like. And suppose she should 
in.sist that the sixpence be restored to its place in 
the sampler, as part of the rented furnishings. 

"Noil! I shall not go back and get caught!" 
On that point Be was resolved, even if she had to 
wait in the passage indefinitely. 

This time she was not at all afraid. She could, 
of course, come out whenever she wished. After 
an instant she turned and tiptoed to the top of the 
steep stair, then, descending, she jiassed under the 
barrier where .she had almost gi\en up in despair. 
She stood there a moment. anno\ed at being held 
back from running to Peg. and reflecting that for 
a considerable time there was no chance of getting 
out through the dorniitor>' unseen. 

"I go again and push that trap-door," she said 
to herself, impatient at the delay, and searching 
about in her mind for a means of escape. It 




would do no harm to try. But first she carefully 
replaced the step before she hurried down. 

Going in this direction, the light was all ahead 
of her until she entered the underground passage. 
She felt she was on familiar ground, and in spite 
of the darkness, she went forward quickl)-. In 
the lower passage, where the dusk deepened, she 
slackened her pace and began to grope ahead, 
expecting to encounter the first of the short flight 
of steps leading up to the spring-house, and at 
length her foot struck a projection. 

Feeling her way cautiously, she mounted until 
her hair touched the top, then she raised her hands 
to lift the trap. 

"It will be no use, I suppose," she said to her- 
self; but to her great joy and surprise, the square 
door abo\e her head mo\ed easily, and a moment 
more she was out in the light again, looking down 
at the clo.sed trap in wonder. 

(.To be 

"Now how is that?" she wondered. "Before it 
would not open. Now — " She shrugged her 
shoulders in the French fashion, then a light 
entered her mind, "Conime jc sui!: bete!" ["How 
stupid I ani!"l she said; "it is the lucky si.xpence, 
of course!" and turned to leave the house. As 
she did so, her eye lit upon the little toad look- 
ing up at her. 

"Ah, Monsieur Crapaud, you are still there. 
I 'ave to thank you a thousand times!" she said. 

Outside the door she nearl\- collided with a 
man who was standing and hurriedl>' poking 
about in the grass near one of the benches with a 

V\'ith a slight exclamation of surprise she halted, 
and the intruder looked up and saw her. It was 
Captain Badger, and Be recognized him at once 
as the English officer she had passed one afternoon 
on her wa>- to the lodge. 




Off swung I with a song on my lip, 

Down to great waters a-seeking a ship; 

My eyes to the west and my stick in ni\' hand. 

So I beheld her a-coming to land. 

The wind in her tops'ls, the foam at her bow 
(Ah, I remember the look of her, now!), 
Beating up handily into the ba>'. 
Casting my soul in a spell that day. 

Years upon >ears can I now look back 

On the wandering thread of a sea-blown track; 

Round the Horn and across the Line, 

In the black gale's teeth or the hot star-shine. 

Oh, the taut slirouds' tune and the liaKards' 

And the cry of the sails when the northers speak, 
And the voice of the sea on a hurp,ing keel. 
Ever and ever m\- heart shall feel. 

^'et — when we drop past the shores of Cl>'de, 
Slip|)ing in with the evening tide, 
\\ hen the sheep bells blow on the landward air, 
.\ru! llie dusk is come, and the moon hangs fair, 

\A'hen the harbor lights shine out so still, 
My eyes turn back against my will 
To the windy top of .-Xrdrossan Hill — 
The hill where I stood with a song on my lip, 
Before that I plighted myself to a ship. 



Children crowd the famous executi\e mansion 
in Albany, New York's home for its go\ernor, now 
that Governor Nathan L. Miller has taken 

All records as to the number of children in 
the stately old (lovernor's residence have been 


broken, and they will be shattered still further 
when Go\-ernor Miller can induce his first grand- 
child to \ isil him in the big house on the hill in 

There are seven children in the Miller family, 
from youngsters to grown-ups — more than ever 
before made their iiome there. They are a mighty 
proud lot, now that they have moved from the 
big old English home in Syracuse, with its wonder- 
ful lawns and gardens, to the "first home in the 

It was long before Governor Miller was nomi- 
nated for the gowrnorship, — in fact, when he was 
asserting that he would not accept the nomina- 
tion, — that some one tried to reach him In' tele- 
phone and foimd him awa>- on his vacation. One 
of the Miller yoimgsters answered, and when the 
inquirer had learned where Judge Miller and Mrs. 
Miller were staying, he persisted with this quer>-: 

"How would you like to go down to Albany and 
li\e in the big exeeuti\e mansion and have your 
father governor?" 

There was a bit of hesitation, and then Louise, 
one of the famous Miller twins answered: 

"Oo-oo-oh, would n't that be w-o-n-d-e-r-f-u-1!" 

Well, it has come true, and Louise, one of the 
outdoor >-oungsters who scampered by da>- all 
over James Street hill in Syracuse, is now living 

in the big executive mansion at Albany and has 
her father for governor. Of course, it 's "wonder- 

If there e\-er was a healthy lot of outdoor young- 
sters, these Miller children are they. From Con- 
stance, the baby of the famiU', to Mildred, the 
oldest, now married, with a baby of her own, they 
are conspicuous examples of what outdoor life 
means to a child. 

.A lixely troop of children they are! After 
their father had been nominated for governor 
last summer, photographers began to descend on 
the Miller home for pictures of the nominee and 
his family. A day for them was fixed, and the 
famih' gathered together. It was some job, for the 
children were playing all over the neighborhood. 

Movie men set up their jionderous cameras, 
and newspaper photographers scurried back and 
forth across the lawns, peering into the ground 
glass of their cameras, tr\ing to catch the children 
at pla>'. It was no use! They were too acti\-e, 
and in the end Judge Miller had to gather his 
Hock around him. Marshalling them as a movie 
director handles action, he put his famih' through 
their stunts and turned them out as linishetl movie 

He marched them across the big lawns while 
the mo\'ie men ground out hundreds of feet of 
film and the "still" photographers snapped their 
camera-shutters until their |)late cases were 

Hut there was one of his "actors" Judge Miller 
could not control. It was Scout, the new canine 
lord of the executive mansion grounds, a rang\' 
police-dog who is the particular pet of the Miller 
children. Only once would Scout consent to jsose 
for his picture, and then his mind was somewhere 
else, for his eyes were not on the lens, but far 
away. This posing does bore one! Especialh', 
when one is to be the lord high keeper of the big 
grounds at the executive mansion. 

There has often been a large family of chil- 
dren in the executive mansion — six when Colonel 
Roosevelt was governor, and fi\'e during the recent 
administration of Governor Smith. But to-day 
there are seven, Constance, the youngest, then 
the twins, Eleanor and Louise, Elizabeth, Mar- 
garet, and Marian. The oldest, Mildred, is now 
Mrs. D. P. McCarth>', wife of a soldier of the 
second division of the A. E. F. 

A hapijy, healthy family the\' are, watched 
o\'er b>' their mother, a fine, old-fasliioned Amer- 
ican mother. 



A Revie-cv of Current Events 


Once more Young America is saddened by the 
approach of the end of a ^ear of school. Soon 
are to begin the drear>' days of nothing-to-do 
except swim and go fishin', play tennis or baseball, 
and wait for September to come. 

The line moves up. 

The \'er>- I.ittle Folk say good-b>- to the kinder- 
garten, the grammar-school boys and girls begin 
to think of the weighty responsibilities of high 
school, and the high-school folks prepare to go to 
college to be freshmen all o^•er again. 

The line moves up. 

K^■erybod^■ is making progress. Everybody is 
looking ahead. F.\-er>-bod>- has something to hope 
and work for. A hitching-post can stand still, but 
the horse that wants oats must keep mo\ing. 

"Onward and upward" used to be the motto of 
the Sunday-school books. It is n't fashionable, 
nowada\s, to talk like that; and yet the old 
phrase has a helpful suggestion. It 's cheerful! 
When >-ou 're mo\ing onward and upward, ^'ou 're 
.ili\e, you 're in the race, you count! 

Commencement time is a good time to take a 
look backward, to see how much >-ou 've gained 
in the last >ear; and a look forward, to see what 's 
ahead. Keep in step, don't straggle, when — 

The line mo\'es up. 


The first national census was taken in 1790, and 
since then the count has been made e\'ery ten 
years. The first census, in 1790, ga\'ea total po]Mi- 
lation of less than 4,000,000. The fourteenth, 
last year, gi\es a total of more than I05,o(xi,ooo. 
It cost more than $23,000,000 to take it. 

Fi\e States now ha\e populations larger than 
that of the nation in 1790: Texas, with 4,663,228; 
Ohio, 5,759,395; Illinois, 6,485,280; Pennsylvania, 
8,720,017, and New York, 10.384,829. New York 

City now has a million or so more inhabitants 
than the whole Union had 130 >-ears ago. 

The census is more than a mere counting of 
indixiduals. Many large volumes are needed for 
it. The population is divided into groups b>- age, 
bj' race and color, and b>' occupation. It estab- 
lishes the basis of representation in Congress, and 
is used in calculating taxes, in the draft for the 
army in the war, and by insurance, banking, and 
other companies in managing their business. 


The \er>' thing that makes it hard to write The 
^^ATCH Tower, the long interval between the 
writing and the publication of the articles, ought 
to make these jjages onl\- the better worth reading. 
The \\'.\tch Tower is a re\ iew, and it gi\es you 
the adwintage of seeing recent e\ents from two 
angles. .As this article is written. President 
Harding's first message to Congress is a matter 
of the da>-'s news. When you read it, you will 
be able to check up its "points" with actual 

On Tuesday, April 12, President Harding ap- 
peared in person before the Senators and Repre- 
sentati\"es, and read his message. The President 
explained that the special session had been called 
because of the existence of jjroblems, domestic 
and international, "too pressing to be long neg- 
lected." He urged that the home problems be 
taken up first in the program of legislation. 

Economy, President Harding said, was the 
watchword; but it must be made more than that, 
it must become a realit\-. The nation's expendi- 
tures must be cut down to fit the nation's income. 
The payment of the war debt must be arranged 
in a businesslike wa\-, so that the amount may 
be reduced steadil>-, year b>- year. Current ex- 
penses must be cut down; all the government de- 
partments had been ordered to organize their 





■work in the most economical way possible. 
Further, President Harding advised that the 
s\'stem of taxation be oxerhaiiled, and urged earh- 
adoption of a protective tariff, and a reduction of 
the high cost of go\ernment. "I have said to 
the people," he remarked, "that we mean to have 
less of go\ernment in business and more business 
in the Government." 

Taking up the matter of the railroads, the 
President urged Congress to lower the rates of 
transportation. "Freight-carr\-ing charges," he 
said, "have mounted higher and higher, until 
conunerce is halted and production lowered. 
Railway- rates and costs of operation must be 

.•\nother problem is that of the public highwa>s. 
Transportation b>- auto-truck helps lighten the 
burden of the railroads, but it cannot be developed 
as it ought to be unless and until we have better 
roads. "I know of nothing," said the President, 
"more shocking than the millions of public funds 
wasted in impro\ed highwa>s — wasted because 
there is no polic>' of maintenance." 

Our Chief Magistrate asked Congress to con- 
sider wa\s and means of de\eloping American 
ownership of wireless plants and cables; of im- 
proving and expanding our commercial and 
military facilities for air navigation; for taking 
care of disiibled veterans of the A. I",. F., and for 
instituting a National Departmenl of Public 
Welfare, to super\ise the work of education, health 
protection, and child welfare. The regulation 

of these matters is now distributed among a 
number of bureaus in separate departments. 

Taking up our foreign relations, the President 
outlined a policy whereby America would defi- 
niteh' "reject" the Feague of Nations as now con- 
stituted, and undertake onh- to cooperate with 
Europe on recognition of our war-won rights. 
He urged Congress to pass, at once, a resolution 
declaring us at peace with German>-. 

As you read this, in June, it will be interesting 
to see just how far Congress has been able to go 
toward realization of this program. 


The attempt by a part of British labor to bring 
about a stoppage of all industry- showed [lerhaps 
e\en more startlingly than the story of conunun- 
ism in Russia the danger of tr\ing to cancel the 
laws of nature in regard to human life. Such a 
slate of affairs in England comes nearer home to 
us than the horrors of Bolshe\ism in Russia. 

Men ha\e ecjual opportunity', so far as their 
relation to the State is concerned. But men do 
not ha\e equal abilities. Laws that permit the 
industrious man to prosper are good laws. Laws 
that permit unscrupulous men to take advantage 
of honest men are bad laws. 

Bad laws can be killed, and good ones passed in 
(heir place. But when an>' one part of the popu- 
lation tries to dictate how the government shall 

10-' 1 1 



l)f run, the result is lawlessness. Foolish labor- 
leaders who threaten to jmt a stop to all prodiic- 
li\e industry and public service are a danger to 
the whole State. The>- would destro\- what the>' 
could not replace. 

Thank heaven for the good practical sense of 
American workers! We are all workers. We 
must be careful to keep our lo\e of fair pla>- and 
square dealing all round. 


On his way home from the West to celebrate his 
(■ight>'- fourth birthday, John Burroughs died, and 
his funeral was held on the day for which the 
birthday observance had been planned. The 
friend and student of Nature was buried in the 
place where he had spent main' happy hours 
searching out the secrets of bird and tree life. 

John Burroughs pursued his studies in an out- 
door laboratory-. You cannot imagine him de\ot- 
ing a lifetime to chemical analyses or scientific 
formulas. He was interested in life and its mean- 
ing. The birds and the bees, the flowers and the 
fishes, were all bearers of a message that he tried 
to read. In man\-, many books he told the Story 
of Nature as it unfolded before him. To thou- 
sands of readers his writings brought knowledge 
and inspiration to study. 

The studies of John Burroughs, and the writings 
in which he reported them and presented their 
results to the public, were a \ery important con- 
tribution to our American ci\'ilization, which 
stri\es to make the world a safe and happ>' one to 
live in. 


Dr. Rudolf Holsti, Finland's Minister of For- 
eign Affairs, said in an interview that the Baltic 
States had made remarkable progress since the 
war. "The Russians," he said, "carried away all 
they could; the Germans took what little the 
Russians had left; and then the Reds smashed up 
what could not be moved." 

Five new states were brought into being in 
northeastern Europe. Since the war, they ha\e 
all been i)roducti\ely engaged, and in contrast to 
Russia, they have endeavored to take a place in 
the world's work of reconstruction. Their work- 
men may not be as happy as angels, but they are 
doing prettj- well and are not inclined to follow 
the Russian e.\ample. 

These new states stand between Russia and 
the route of commerce out through the Baltic, but 
they do not close that route to any future develop- 
ment of Russian trading. Dr. Holsti regards the 
dispute between F'inland and the .Aland Islands 
as only a passing difficulty, and believes that 

Lithuania and the Polos will be able lo "get 
along." The mere fact that a Baltic statesman 
chooses to sa>' these things is an encouraging 
sign for the future of the old Baltic kingdoms and 
the new Baltic republics. 


This letter has been received, read with careful 
attention, and set aside for notice in The Watch 
Tower because it presents an honest criticism 
that concerns us all: 

Lincoln University, Pa. 
April 2, 1 92 1. 
Editor of St. Nicholas; 
Dear Sir: 

It seems to me a pity tliat the writer of The W.atch 
Tower should miss an opportunity to make for the end- 
ing of war and inter-racial enmity in tiie remarks he 
makes concerning certain countries. We certainly do 
not wish a war with Japan, and a good many of us want 
to see a new Germany. 

Why, then, keep before the younger generation, who 
were in no way responsible, the hatefulness. the crime, 
and the savagery of the late war? He says: ".Sympathy 
for Germany is like sympathy for a man who has delib- 
erately set tire to a house and is not even sorry for the 
destruction of life and property he has caused." Grant- 
ed. But does it follow that the children and the grand- 
children of the man who burned the house and the man 
whose house was burned are to swear eternal enmity? 

It seems to me that The Watch Tower is losing an 
opportunity of restoring peace and good will among the 
men and women of the morrow. The hatred of North 
and South would have died out sooner if the grown-ups 
had not deliberately pas.sed on their prejudices and 
enmities to the children. 

In saying this I am no Germanophile, nor do I forget 

any of Germany's crimes, but I do not think it necessary 

either for justice or for patriotism to train children to 

hate other children because of the crimes of the fathers. 

Very truly, 

George Johnson. 

The question here brought up is a difficult one. 
The Watch Tower preaches no Gospel of Hate. 
No reader of it can fairly affirm that it has ever 
spoken in a spirit of revenge, or that it has in- 
tentionally encouraged "inter-racial enmity." 
.\nd we do not believe that our articles fail to 
embody quite accurately our intention, w'hich is: 
to get at the facts, even if it hurts, when there is 
something good to be gained in the end. 

A nation is made up of all its citizens. The 
nation is a personality comjiosed of millions of 
jiersonal units. You who read this are a part of 
America; so am I who write it. So are more than 
a hundred million other persons — old and young, 
rich and poor, good and bad, wise and foolish. 
We are all parts of a great nation which has to 
deal with other nations just as individual persons 
ha\e to deal with one another. 

A person who does not pay his bills is a bad 




factor in the community. He makes other jieople 
pa>- for his wrong-doing. A person who is reck- 
less with a gun endangers the lives of others, who 
are not on guard against such perils. In a com- 
munity of individuals, of states, or of nations, each 
one must make his conduct, where it affects others, 
fit the rules adopted by the community for its 
protection. Failing to do so, he must be brought 
to book: first, for his own good; second, for the 


Wide WurlJ I'liotu 




protection of other indi%iduals; third, for the 
preservation of ci\ilization, which is nothing 
more or less than the organization of communities 
for the common welfare, in contrast with the life 
oi savages, where it 's e\er>' one for himself. 

"Losing an opportunity of restoring peace and 
good will?" The Watch Tower man would shed 
every drop of ink in his \'eins to accomplish that 
restoration ! The Watch Tower boys and girls 
have gi\eii time, work, and money for everj- work 
of relief and reconstruction. 

We don't think there is any danger at all of a 
war \\'itli Japan. We want to see German\- cured 
and worth\- again of respect and confidence. But 
we belie\e the way to avoid war with Japan is to 
discuss freely and openly the difficulties that 
undeniabh- do exist. We do not belie\e that 
they can be removed by shutting our eyes to them. 
And, ready and anxious as we are to see signs of 

an honest intention on the part of Germany to 
do the right thing, we are not going to let our- 
seh'es be betra>-ed. Germany must keep her 
word, e\en if she has to be forced to it. We should 
like nothing better than to see Young Germany 
take hold and make good; but it has n't happened 

Meanwhile, The Watch Tower will continue 
to be, as it always has been, .American through 
and through; not "training children to hate other 
children because of the crimes of the fathers," 
but teaching children to think for themselves, 
to stand for the two-sided square deal, and to be 
.Americans with backbone. 


Ambassador Jusserand, who represents France 
in this country, and M. Rene \'i\iani, former 
|)rime minister, sent to us on a special mission, 
ha\'e assured .Americans, in the most unreser\"ed 
manner, that F"rance is this countr>'s friend. M. 
\'i\"iani was greeted at New York with great 
enthusiasm by an audience that packed Carnegie 
Hall, and in a most eloquent address he ijromised 
that the countrymen of I.afa>ette would always 
be ready to help defend .American freedom against 

Coming from the French Government's official 
representative, these assurances have great au- 
thority. It is pleasant to know that the nations 
back of the two Go\ernments share this friendh- 


The Committee on Election Laws of the Massa- 
chusetts Legislature drew up, in .April, a bill pro- 
viding a penalty to be imposed upon qualified 
\oters who neglect to cast a ballot in a cit>-, state, 
or national election. The bill, as the committee 
proposed to submit it, fixed a fine of fi\e dollars 
for such offense. We often speak of the right to 
\ote or the privilege of voting, and forget that 
voting is a dut>\ The community- has a right to 
require every qualified voter to express his pref- 
erence. The election is supposed and intended to 
embody the desires of all citizens with voting 
power, and everj' absentee from the polls weakens 
the representative qualitv' of. t he lialloting. Would 
the idea of compulsory voting be popular.' It 
would greatly increase the cost and work of hold- 
ing elections. 

The veteran suffrage leader, Mrs. Carrie Chap- 
man Catt, made a stirring apjieal to women 
to "do something" to put an end to war forever. 
"It seems to me," she said, "that God is giving a 



<ij Kadel and Herbert 


call to the women of the world to come forward 
and say, 'You shall no longer slay your fellow- 
men.' " Mrs. Catt's eloquent appeal commands 
almost universal sympathy, but most of us are 
inclined to give President Harding a little more 
time before accusing his Administration of being 
"stolid and inactive." The National League of 
Women Voters appealed to Congress to take the 
lead in a program of disarmament. 

In the last week of March and the first half of 
April, in Japan, more than 6,000 houses were de- 
stro>-ed in three fires, two in Tokio and one in 
Hakodate. The first conflagration in Tokio 
threatened to destroy the whole city. 

In the first three months of this year, it is reported, 
42,000 persons emigrated from Italy to the 
United States, and 29,000 to \arious countries in 
South America. 

E.\-President Taft said recently: "I believe 
that legislation may be more or less helpful in 
increasing among men equality of opportunity, 
but the question is: Ha\e men the courage, char- 
acter, and foresight indi\idually to improve that 
equality of opportunit>?" Mr. Taft, in the same 
address, criticized labor for lack of interest in its 
tasks. With utmost respect for the great army of 
faithful workers to whom such criticism does not 
apply, we must sa>' that it does seem that a great 
many people fail to meet the earn-your-li\ ing 

problem in just the right spirit. Whether there 
are more such in this age than there have been in 
other ages, we leave to the judgment of others. 

The New York State Senate passed, by a vote of 
38 to 7, a bill requiring public-school teachers to 
pass loyalty tests. Two kinds of teachers would 
object to these tests: those who are most loyal, 
and those who are disloyal. Opposition to the 
bill was based on the good old American plan of 
letting citizens take care of some things them- 
selves, instead of having the Government do it. 
But such personal freedom requires very high 
quality in those who enjoy the privilege! In one 
way or another, we mnst make sure that the 
school-teachers of all our land are 100 per cent. 

The students at Stephens College, Columbia, 
Missouri, a junior college for girls, have a self- 
governing board which not only includes execu- 
tive, legislative and judicial departments, but also 
includes an organized fire-department. The fire- 
chief is elected by the student body at the begin- 
ning of each school year. The chief has complete 
control of the appointments, selecting captains in 
the various dormitories and lieutenants for each 
floor in each dormitory. Fire-drills are held 
from time to time, and the organization has be- 
come so efficient that the buildings are entirely 
emptied within three minutes after the alarm is 



American engineers have accomplished so many 
wonderful things that we are apt to overlook the 
fact that other nations also possess engineers 
capable of performing marvelous achievements. 
Most of our readers probably do not realize that 
the Italians are remarkably ingenious and daring, 
particularly in aeronautic and marine engineer- 
ing. They probably inherit some of the genius 
that made the old Romans the greatest engineers 
of their day. 

Italian engineers were recently faced with a 



vexing problem, which they solved in a wonder- 
fully neat and original manner. 

It was in .August, 1916, that a terrific explosion 
was heard in the harbor of Taranto, and the 
dreadTiought Leonardo da Vinci was seen to settle 
down by the stern and turn turtle. The after 
magazines had exploded, tearing a large hole in 
the hull of the vessel. Immediately, the water 
poured in and weighted down one side of the 
vessel, .so that it rolled over and sank, bottom up- 

ward. It all happened within ten minutes and 
249 officers and men were killed. At the point 
where the accident occurred, the water was only 
six fathoms (thirt>'-six feet) deep, and the bottom 
of the \essel projected above water-le\el. 

The Leonardo da Vinci was one of the most 
important vessels in the Italian Na\y. She was 
650 feet long and had a disjjlacement of 22,380 
tons. She was fitted with thirteen 12-inch guns, 
eighteen 4.7-inch guns, and eighteen 3-inch guns, 
besides three torpedo-tubes. The sinking of this 
\essel was a serious loss, and it was particularl\- 
tantalizing to have the boat lying helpless right 
there in the harbor in plain sight. Immediately, 
engineers set about the task of righting the vessel. 
The first plan was to construct a large floating 
dock which would lift up the boat and permit of 
repairing it in the open, but the pressure of the 
war was such that neither money, men, nor ma- 
terial could be spared, and the Italians, realizing 
that probably the vessel could not be .saKaged and 
put back into service before the end of the war, 
proceeded in more leisurely wa>' to work out a 
|ilan of operations. The first thing they did was 
to build large models of the ship, to stud>- out 
just why it capsized and just how it could be 
righted again. It was finally decided to raise the 
\ essel bottom upward, and then tow it into a dry- 
dock, where repairs could be completed, after 
\\ hich would come the task of righting it. 

The dr\-dock at Taranto is onl\- forty feet 
deep, and the \essel could not enter it keel upward 
without having the funnels, gun-turrets, and all 
superstructures above the forecastle deck re- 
moved. This proved to be a verj- difficult task, 
because the wreck had sunk deep into the muddy 
bottom. The plan was first to make temporarx- 
reijairs of the holes that had been torn in the hull, 
and then to pump air into the hull until it floated. 
Men would then enter the hull through air-locks 
and cut away the superstrticture. The bulkheads 
and decks had to be strengthened, so as to stand 
the air-pressure. All this was \er>^ tedious work, 
particularly that of cutting away the rivets that 
held the funnels in place. Then quantities of coal 
and ammunition were removed, and finally the 
hull was read>- to be raised on a cushion of air. 
Not only was air pumi^ into the hull, but eight 
air cslinders, each sexenty feet long and sixteen 
feet in diameter, were lashed to the hull. Kvery- 
thing worked out according to calculations and at 
last, in the autumn of 1919, the hull, still bottom 





up, was floated and towed into the dry-dock. 
Here repairs were fully completed and the hull 
was made as good as new. 

But then came the problem of turning the hull 
o\er. Had it been a small boat, it might have 
been turned o\"er b\ means of cables and steam- 
winches, but the Italian engineers decided to use 
a more ingenious scheme. If water flowing into 
the hull had so unbalanced the vessel that it cap- 
sized, why could n't water again capsize the cap- 
sized hull and turn it right side up? They studied 
the matter with their models of the boat and 
found out just how to do it. By letting the water 
flow into certain compartments, they could make 
the. model turn over just as they wanted it to. 
And so the hull of the Leonardo da Vinci was pre- 
pared with proper compartments for air and 
water, and 400 tons of solid ballast were added. 
Finalh', on Januan,' 24 of this year, the dr>'-dock 
^\■as flooded and the \'essel was towed out to open 
^^■ater, where a deep basin had been dredged out. 
The \al\es were opened to let the sea-water flood 
the ct)mpartments, and slowly the vessel began to 
roll o\cr. Then the motion increased, and all 
hands got clear of the ship. The hull righted it- 
self and the momentum carried it far over to the 
opposite side. But there was no fear of its going 
o\er too far and capsizing again. This had been 
guarded against by placing ballast which gave it 
a list in the opposite direction. 

The spectacle was witnessed b\' go%ernment 
ofificials from an airship that hovered over the 
vessel and as soon as the hull was righted the 
Italian flag was automatically run up to signalize 
the triumph of the Italian engineers. When the 
\essel was in dr>'-dock, a motto by the great 
Italian for whom the \essel was named was 

painted in large letters across the deck, and when 
the vessel righted itself spectators read; 

"Ogni torto si dirizza"— "Every wrong rights 

A. Russell Bond. 


The two star-groups that occupy the center of 
the celestial stage in mid-latitudes of the northern 
hemisphere during the early evening hours of 
June are Bootes (Bo-o'-tez), called the Hunter, 
although the word means the herdsman or the 
shouter, which will be found overhead at this 
time, and Virgo, the Maiden, largest of the zodi- 
acal constellations, lying nearly due south. 

The gorgeous orange-hued Arcturus in Bootes 
and the beautiful bluish-white Spica, like a dia- 
mond in its sparkling radiance, form with De- 
uebola (De-neb'-o-la), which we identified last 
month, a huge equal-sided triangle that is always 
associated with the spring and early summer 

To the west of Bootes, below the handle of the 
Big Dipper, is a region where there are few con- 
spicuous stars. Here will be found Canes Venatici 
(the Hunting Dogs with which Bootes is supposed 
to be pursuing the Great Bear around the north 
pole), and, farther south, Coma Berenicis (Bere- 
nice's Hair). 

The brighter of the two Hunting Dogs, which is 
also the brightest star in the entire region ro\cred 
by these two constellations, appears as a beauli- 
fiil blue-and-yellow double star in the telescope. 
It was named Cor Caroli (Heart of Charles) b>' 
the astronomer Halley in honor of Charles II of 
England, at the suggestion of the court physician, 
who imagined it shone more brightly than usual 




the night before the return of Charles to London. 
Of more interest to astronomers is the magnifi- 
cent spiral nebula in this constellation, known as 
the "Whirlpool Nebula," appearing as a faint, 
luminous patch in the sky, and of which many 
photographs ha\e been taken with the great tele- 
scopes. This entire region, from Canes \"cnatici to 

Northern Crown. It consists of six stars ar- 
ranged in a nearly perfect semicircle, and one 
will have no difficulty in recognizing it. 

Bootes is one of the largest and finest of the 
northern constellations. It can be easily dis- 
tinguished by its peculiar kite-shaped grouping 
of stars or by the conspicuous pentagon (five- 

C/KNES .• 



*• Y. Coma 





X'irgo, abounds in faint spiral nebulae that for some 
reason not yet understood by astronomers are 
crowded together in this part of the hea%ens where 
stars are comparati\'ely few. It is belie\-ed that 
there are between fi\-e hundred thousand and a 
million of these spiral nebulae in the entire heav- 
ens, and the problem of their nature and origin 
and distance is one that the astronomers are \'ery 
atLxious to soke. ]\Ian>^ wonderful facts are 
now being learned concerning these faint nebu- 
lous wisps of light which, with few exceptions, are 
observable only with great telescopes, and which 
reveal their spiral structure more clearly to the 
photographic i)late than to the human eye. 

Coma Berenicis, south of Canes V^enatici and 
southwest of Bootes, is a constellation that con- 
sists of a great number of stars clo.sely crowded 
together, and just barely \isible to the unaided 
eye. As a result, it has the appearance of film\- 
threads of light, which doubtless suggested its 
name to the imaginative ancients, who loved to 
fill the heavens with fanciful creations associated 
with their myths and legends. 

This region, so lacking in interesting objects for 
the naked-eye observer, is a mine of riches to the 
fortunate possessors of telescopes; and the great 
telescopes of the world are frequently pointed in 
this direction, exploring the mysteries of sjiace 
that abound here. 

Just to the east of Bootes is the exquisite little 
circlet of stars known as Corona Borealis, the 

sided figure) of stars which it contains. The most 
southerly star in this pentagon is known as Epsilon 
Bootes and is one of the finest double stars in the 
heavens. The two stars of which it consists are 
respectively orange and greenish-blue in color. 

By far the finest object in Bootes, however, is 
the magnificent Arcturus. which is the brightest 
star in the northern hemisphere of the heavens. 
This star will be conspicuous in the e\ening hours 
throughout the summer months, as will also the 
less brilliant Spica in \ irgo. 

Some recent measurements show that .\rcturus 
is one of our nearer neighbors among the stars. 
Its distance is now estimated to be about twent>- 
four light->-ears. That is, a ray of light from this 
star takes twenty-four years to reach the earth, 
traveling at the rate of one hundred and eighty- 
six thous;iiid miles jier second. It is e\ident that 
such a distance expressed in miles would be be- 
yond our com]irehension, and therefore, toexjiress 
the distances of the stars in simple and convenient 
form, the "light-\ear" was de\ised, which is tlie 
distance light travels in a year and which is equiv- 
alent to about six trillion miles. It would seem 
as if we should hardl>' speak of .Arcturus, twent\- 
four light->ears awa\-. as a fiear neighbor, yet 
there are millions of stars that are far more dis- 
tant from the earth, and very few that are nearer 
to us than .\rcturus. 

The brightness of .\rcturus is estimated to be 
about fortx-three times that of the sun. That 




is, if the two bodies were side by side, Arcturus 
would send forth forty-three times as nnich light 
and heat as the sun. 

Arcturus is also one of the most rapidly nio\ing 
stars in the heavens. In the past sixteen cen- 
turies it has traveled so far as to have changed its 
position among the other stars by as much as I he 
apparent width of the moon. Most of the stars, 
in spite of their motions through the heavens in 
various directions, appear to-day in the same 
relative positions in which they were sev^era! thou- 
sand years ago. It is for this reason that the con- 
stellations of the EgA-ptians and of the Greeks and 
Romans are the same constellations that we see 
in the heavens to-da\'. Were all the stars as 
rapidly moving as .Arcturus, the distinctive forms 
of the constellations would be preserved for only 
a vePi' few centuries. 

X'irgo, which lies south and southwest of Bootes, 
is a large, straggling constellation, consisting of a 
Y-shaped configuration of rather inconspicuous 
stars. It lies in the path of our sun, moon, and 
planets, and is. therefor, one of the zodiacal con- 
stellations. The cross in the diagram indicates 
the position of the autumnal equinox, the point 
where the sun crosses the equator going south, 
and the position the sun occupies at the beginning 
of fall. 

Spica, the brightest in X'irgo, is a bluish- 


white, first-magnitude star standing very much 
alone in the sky. In fact, the Arabs referred to 
this star as "The Solitary One." Its distance 
from the earth is not known, but must be very 
great as it cannot be found by the usual methods. 
The spectroscope shows that it consists of two 
suns, very close together, revolving about a com- 
mon center in a period of only four days. 

Within the branches of the Y in Virgo, and 
just to the north of it, is the wonderful nebulous 
region of this constellation, but it takes a power- 
ful telescope to show the faint spiral nebula' that 
exist here in such profusion. 

Jupiter and Saturn will be visible in Leo 
throughout this month. Jupiter will be ver>- 
conspicuous in the southwest soon after sunset. 
Saturn will be found less than ten degrees east of 
Jupiter. It is now less brilliant than Spica. Venus 
is a morning star this month, and will be a beauti- 
ful object in the eastern sky before sunrise, its dis- 
tance from the sun increasing during the month. 

An excellent opportunity will be afforded for 
one to observe Mercury during the first two weeks 
of June, as it reaches its greatest distance east 
of the sun on June lo. On this date it will be 
less than twenty degrees above the horizon at 
sunset, and southeast of the sun. On account of 
its proximity to the sun, Mercur>' is the least 
observed of all the brighter planets, though more 
brilliant than most of the first magnitude stars. 

There is a possibility that a periodic comet, 
known as the Pons-Winnecke comet, may pass 
near the earth the last of June, and there may be 
an unusual meteoric display at the time. This 
comet is due to arrive this sunnner, but the exact 
date of its visit is uncertain. 

Isabel M. Lewis. 


Those readers of St. Nicholas who have been 
studying physics will recall Newton's third law, 
which states that "To every action there is op- 
posed an equal and opposite reaction." Those 
who ha\"e never heard of this law, or who have 
forgotten it, will need a word of explanation. 

In the first place, you cannot move am* object 
without having something to push against, ^'ou 
cannot even move yourself without pushing 
against something. When you push a cart along 
the street, your feet are pushing in the opposite 
direction against the pavement. The second 
point to consider is that the push against the cart 
is exactly equal to the push against the ground. 
If the cart were heavy and the ground were slip- 
|ierv-, your feet would sli]) out from under you and 
the cart would stand still, and vet the jnish against 
the cart would exactlv' equal the push against the 
slijiperv' ground. 

When you fire a rifle, the powder gases push the 
bullet in one direction and the rille in the opposite 
direction. The "kick" of the riHe is due to the 
backward push of the ]iowder gases, and we call 
this "kick" the reaction. The push against the 
bullet is exacth' equal lo the reaction of the rifle; 
but because the rifle is heav•^' and the bullet is 
light, the velocitj- of the bullet is very great com- 
pared with the backward velocitj- of the rifle. 
Even if there were no bullet in the gun, the pow- 
der gases would make the gun kick, because thev' 
could not get out of the giui-barrel without push- 
ing back against the brcech-l)lock of the gun. 




Some people think that the kick of a blank charge 
is due to the pressure of the powder against the 
air, but that is not so; the kick would be exactly 
the same if the gim were fired in a vacuum. 

Firemen haxe a lot of trouble handling the 
hose when they are directing a high-pressure 
stream of water upon a fire. The water will not 

and the reaction of a stream in a bent hose may 
be so great that two or three firemen must use all 
their strength to control the wriggling hose. 

Two hundred \ears ago, long before the first 
steamboat was built, an in\entor suggested that a 
boat might be propelled b\- pumping a jet of water 
out of the stern, but 


run out of the hose without pushing against some- 
thing. If the hose runs ii a straight line from the 
hydrant, the push is exerted against the hydrant. 
Of course, the water presses against the walls of 
the hose too, but the pressure is equal in all direc- 
tions and we need n't stop to consider it. But if 
the hose is bent, we feel the reaction immediatcK'. 
The water will not change its direction without 
jiushing against something, and in this case it is the 
hose it pushes against. A similar example of re- 
action is furnished when you run around a corner. 
You have to push yourself around with >-our feet, 
and if >'our footing is not good enough. >-our feel 
will slij) and you will not be able to make the turn. 
So c\er\ change of direction results in reaction, 

the matter was not taken 
seriously. Fift\ -fi\c 
years ago, an ii6o-ton 
boat with water-jet pro- 
pulsion was actualh- built 
by the British Admiral t>', 
but it did not prove effi- 
cient. Then, in 1881, two 
small boats were built, 
one driven by a common 
propeller and the other 
by a water-jet. The 
propeller-driven boat 
made 17.6 knots and the 
water-jet boat only 12.6. 
This was rather discour- 
aging, and jet propulsion 
was dropped as imprac- 
ticable. It is interesting 
to note that the boat 
would have made just as 
good progress had the jet 
been discharged in the 
open air instead of under 
water. In fact, the re- 
action would ha\e been 
no greater had the jet 
discharged against a 
stone wall, and no less 
had the jet discharged 
into a vacuum. 

The failure of the boat 
was due to a number of 
secondan,- causes; there 
was nothing wrong with 
the principle of jet pro- 
pulsion, and so, from 
time to time, inventors ha\e re\i\ed it. 

Recently, a water-drixen boat which looks like 
a real success has been constructed in England. 
It does as well as a iiropelier-dri\en boat of the 
same size and engine power and has certain ad- 
\ antages not possessed b>' other boats. The biiat 
is really only a launch, twenty-four feet long and 
weighing two and a half tons. The power-plant 
consists of a jf horse-power engine and a jiair of 
centrifugal pumps. Each pump consists of a 
drum in which an impeller is mounted to turn. 
The impeller is just like a four-bladed paddle- 
wheel, but it does not fit the drum doseh'. 
There is jilentj' of clearance all around the blades. 
The drums projocL ihruugh the hull of the boat 



and are co\ered over by casings that look like 
paddle-boxes. Each drum has two inflow open- 
ings, one at each side, and an outflow opening at 
the bottom and toward the rear. Water conies 
into the drum through the inflow openings and is 
carried around the drum by the blades of the im- 
peller, only to be hurled out toward the stern of 
the boat. The outflowing stream jmsses between 
the two legs of the inflowing water, as shown in 
the inset of our picture. 

The reaction produced by the outflowing stream 
is what drives the boat forward. Now the drums 
can be turned within the casings, so as to change 
the direction of the outflowing stream. In fact, 
they can be turned so far that the stream of water 
is actually directed forward, reversing the direc- 
tion of the boat. The drums may be turned 
separately, so as to steer the boat or turn it 
around as if on a pivot. Ail the while the engine 
and the impeller will be running continuously- in 
the same direction. The drums can be turned 
rearwardly so far that the outflow openings are 
completely covered by the casing. Then all the 
impellers do is to churn the water in the drums, 
and there is no reaction that propels the boat. 
The drums are moved by a couple of hand levers 
and may be locked in any position by means of 
ratchets, one of which is shown in our drawing. 
This maizes a very simple and flexible means of 
control, and the pilot need not bother with the 
engine, once it is started. He can turn this wav' 
and that, run fast or slow, or reverse, merely by 
working (he levers. 

One of the mistakes of previous water-propelled 
boats' has been that they used small jets of water 
of ver>' high velocity. It is quantity of water, 
rather than velocity, that counts. In this boat, 
the stream of water delivered by each pump is 
twenty-four inches square in cross-section, and 
about 9'2 tons of water are discharged per minute. 

The speed of the boat is 5.6 knots, which is just 
about the same as the speed at which a screw- 
propeller would drive the boat with an engine of 
the same horse-power. The boat draws only 
sev'enteen inches, and so can trav'el in very shal- 
low water. It can be used in streams or lakes 
fllled with weeds, where a propeller could not be 
used without becoming badly tangled. 

A. Russell Bond. 


One day we went to \isit Mr. W. A. Eliot and 
were talking about diflerent birds common 
around Portland, Oregon, and of one or two rare 
kinds which were reported near the city. 

Suddenly the telephone bell rang, and in a few 
minutes, Mr. Eliot said that a flock of tliese 

birds, the Bohemian waxwings, were then up on 
Council Crest, a hill overlooking the city. 

We immediately started off to see them. As 
we left the car and walked along, we sighted them 
in a tree near by. We watched them until they 
flew farther up the hill, and we had to make a 
wide detour to see them again. Then we watched 
them bathing and eating rose-haws and liolly- 

The way they ate the large rose-haws W'as in- 
teresting. These were too big for them to swallow 


whole, so thev' tried to peck them to pieces. 
Their beaks were not strong enough to do this, 
so they tried to swallow them anyhow. Some- 
times a bird would fly up with one in his mouth, 
but he always dropped it and went to another, 
sometimes larger and sometimes smaller than the 
last, but invariably with the same result. 

The waxwings are so called because of the red- 
tipped .secondaries (wing-feathers) which look as 
though they had been dip|ied in red sealing-wax. 

The Bohemian waxwing is larger than the 
ordinan,- cedar waxwing and is a natural resident 
in the high mountains and in the far north. It 
has a bright brown mask, a black band through 
the eye, a black chin, bright yellow-and-white 
wing patches, and a broad yellow band on the tail. 
R. Bruce Horsfall, Jr. Uge 12). 





i (' ^ 



6. WHEN Tlll.V Kl'. IWiriTJ HIT T(l TEA 





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:.,^^n.'.L^~rw..!A,y-^j ,.r^i 






1^ /^' 






This, dear St. Nicholas League, is the very last coatribu- 
tion I can ever make to your pages, for in two more days I shall 
have reached the age limit! 

Before I go I want to thank you for all the pleasures you 
liave given me, and, yes, for all the disappointments, too! 

I wish I could do something to show how much 1 love you, 
but that seems impossible. But I am going to make you a 
promise: I am going some day. some how, to make the LEAtiUE 
proud of me. Vour ever-loving member, 

Helen Elmira Waite. 

Dear St. Nicholas League: You cannot even estimate my 
pride in possessing mj- silver badge, for I have been striving for 
recognition in the Le.a.gue for the past ten years! How well I 
remember my first, six-year-old, smudgj' contribution! My 
writing — or rather my printing — was at that early date quite 
illegible. I fear. But while eleven years have elapsed since my 
initial contribution to the League, my enthusiasm for and en- 
joyment in the League have never lagged; and although at 
present I am in college, and have but little time for anything 
else but work, I still find a few minutes now and then in which 
hurriedly to make a contribution for "St. Nick." You see, I 

have but a few more months in which to tr\- for a gold badge, 
and I shall be eighteen next birthday (in December). 

Thanking you again and again for the charming badge, which 
I shall continually wear with pride and pleasure, I am. 
Your sincere friend. 

Selma Morse. 

Dear St. Nicholas League: I have received the lovely silver 
badge for a poem I wrote in the March League competition. 
Thank you ver>- much for it. 

The badge means a lot to me. as it represents an organization 
that, I am sure, is doing a great deal to advance and stimulate 
interest in culture among young people. I appreciate, more 
than I can tell. ever>*thing that membership in the League has 
done for me. Writing for the contests has made me think and 
has broadened my outlook on life and nature. 

I only regret that in a ver>' short time I shall be eighteen 
years of age and can then be a League member no longer! I 
used to think that all the happiness in the world would be mine 
at the independent age of eighteen; but 1 now actually look 
forward with some apprehension to my next birthday! 

I thank you again for the badge and for the opportunities and 
advancement it represents. 

Yours very sincerely, 

Rudolph Cook. 

By placing its age-limit at eighteen, the League has, in 
truth, caused the birthday for that year to take on quite 
a tragic aspect! We receive many letters to this effect 
as the fatal date draws near for one member after 
another. But our young friends must remember that 
they can graduate into the main pages of the magazine 
itself — and of many other magazines! "The world is 
all before them where to choose"; and St. Nicholas 
and their fellow-members will watch their progress with 
the special interest of old-time comrades. 

The League is proud of these letters, which show 
how well — in the familiar phrase — "we are advertised 
by our loving friends." And, in all modesty. St. 
Nicholas may indeed take just and lasting pride in an 
organization that can inspire such sentiments and loy- 
alty in the hearts of American boys and girls. 


(In making awards contriliulors' ages are considered) 
PROSE. Gold Badges, Evelyn Perkins (age 12), Connecticut; Jeanne Hugo (age 16), Minnesota; Florence 
Beaujean fage 14), New York. Silver Badges, Marjorie C. Baker (age 12), Colorado: Alice Sherwood (age 
13), Ind.; Kathryn L. Oliver (age 16), Calif.; Edwin Peterson (age 15), Minn.; Violet Whelen (age 13), D. C. 
VERSE. Gold Badge, Helen R. Norsworthy (age 17), Canada. Silver Badge, Max Goodley (age 17), Ky. 
DRAWINGS. Gold Badges, Harriette McLeod (age 16), Mich.; Bernard S. Sheridan (age 17), Ohio. Silver 
Badges, Jean Pattison (age 13), \. W; Mary Palmateer (age 12), Mass.; Margaret Westoby (age 13), Can. 
PHOTOGRAPHS. Gold Badges, Margaret Scoggin (age 15), Missouri; Jane F, Kirk (age 15), Pennsyl- 
\ania. Silver Badges, Eunice C. Resor (age 16), Ohio; Mary Scattergood (age 13), Pennsylvania; Minnie 
G. Palmer (age 14), New York; Mary F. Thomson (age 15), Ohio; Natica Nast (age 16), New York. 
PUZZLE-MAKING. Silver Badges, Elizabeth Barton (age 17), New York; Lael Tucker (age 11), Louis- 
iana; Betty Dering (age 11), Wisconsin; Alice Wilkins (age 10), California. 






(A True Story) 


(Silver Badge) 
Sati'rdav night, Mother and I went to the Auditorium 
to sec Pavlowa. We got out quite late. Mother and I 
were all alone in oin- new car. It is a closed one. Wc 
were going down Logan Street, which was very dark. 
All of a sudden we heard a man yell at us. He said. 
■'Pull over to the curb and stop!" Mother at first 
thought it was a policeman; but she looked around and 
saw a man jump from a car and point a gun at us. She 
knew that no policeman would point a gun at a woman 
and a little girl, so she put on full speed, and the man 
could n't jump on our running-board. 

Our car has a wonderful pick-up. and we got away for 
the time being. They followed close behind us, without 
anj- lights on. Mother drove as fast as she could with- 
out tipping the car over. She drove up in front of our 
house and honked the horn loudly. Daddy came out 
just in time to sec the men race up Second Avenue after 
ns. But we had n't gone that way; we had turned off 
of Second Avenue just in time to escape them. Daddy 
'phoned Headquarters right away. Some policemen 
caught the men after a long chase. 

I certainly think we got home just in time, don't you':" 



{Gold Badge. Silver Badge won September, IQ20) 
In the witching, mist-hung moonlight soft. I slipped 

along the grass 
To a stonc-walled. dew-wet garden where the pale- 

hued roses mass — 
Where the fountain's thread of silver lifts and sways as 

breezes pass. 

Dreamed I there, in swimming fragrance, of a myriad 

roses poured 
On the cool night air, like incense to some mystic 

Eastern lord — 
Came a sound of footsteps falling, faint as rain upon 

the sward. 

Footsteps, and a silken rustle — lo! with dainty old- 
time grace. 

Came a lady lightly toward mc, quaintly clad and fair 
of face; 

And a courtly lord trod after, brave in miilorin and 

All unheeding of nn- presence, soft tlic>- wandered to 

and fro 
On the blossom-bordered pathwavs that they loved so 

long ago; 
And the fountain echoed back their silver laughter, 

sweet and low. 

.Softly fell the mo<m-ra\s roinid them, clothed them in a 

gleaming light ; 
On the silken gown tlie\' shimmered, on the powrlercd 

wigs of white, 
On the heavy-perfumefl flowers, on the saber polished 


Swift she stooped and plucked a rosebud ; smiling, gave 

it; and I knew 
That an old-time lord and lady to their plighted troth 

were true. 
And their shades still loved to wander 'mid the roses, 

wet with dew. 

When the pale, uncertain moonlight silvers lawns and 

woods and seas. 
When the sleeping roses yield their heavy perfmne to 

the breeze — 
Think you not that far, faint stirring is the .sighing of 

the trees; 

'T is the footsteps of the sharles returning from suinc 

long-dead June, 
To wander where the lichencd fountain tinkles still its 

While full-blown roses drop their gleaming petals 

'neath the moon. 




{Honor Member) 
In a deep, cushioned arm-chair before the fireplace sat a 
stately, dark-haired maiden, her dreamy gaze fixed on 
the glowing embers before her. She seemed to be think- 
ing deeply. 

Suddenly a slight shudder shook her whole frame, and 
her face took on a curious expression, half of fear, half of 
anticipation, as if she were struggling against some 
strong emotion within her. It took her but a moment 
to decide what course to pursue. This was the crucial 
moment — it was "now or never!" If she did not fore- 
stall that — But she must, she must! 

In less time than it takes to tell it, she had sprung to 
her feet, darted across the room, seized her muff from 
the table where it lay, and was fumbling within it fev- 
erishly. There was not a moment to lose! Every 
second counted ! 

Just as it seemed that she would never find what she 
sought, and as the emotion was becoming more over- 
powering than ever, she drew forth triumphantly some- 
thing soft and white. 

Then — "Kcrchoo-o-o-o-oH" Ah! .She had found her 
handkerchief just in time! 



In 1862, during the Civil War, the Confederates changed 
the old partly burned steamer Merrimac into an iron- 
clad mon.ster carrying fifteen guns. 

On March 8, the Merrimac came out of Norfolk and 
steamed to the vessels of the Union blockade, at Hamp- 
ton Roads, The sailors laughed at the Merrimac. But 






great was the fright when the Merrimac, without being 
injured by the bullets fired at it, fired a broadside into 
the Cumberland and sank it. The news was soon tele- 
graphed over the United States. All hope for the North 
was given up. for what could stop this terrible monster 
from destroying all the fine wooden ships of the time. 

All day the Merrimac wrought havoc, but by night. 
before finishing her career of destruction, she returned 
to Norfolk. 

That night the Monitor arrived at Hampton Roads. 
The Monitor had been built by John Ericsson, and had 
come down at the critical moment. 

The next day, Sunday, the two ironclads fought a 
battle. The commander of the Monitor, being slightly 
blinded by burning powder, withdrew the Monitor. 
Neither vessel won, but the Monitor came just in time 
to save the Northern cause. 



{Gold Badge. Silver Badge won .August, igzo) 
The noonday sun beat down upon the rolling pastures 
of Palestine, one day long ago. .Standing alone on a 
grass}- hilltop was a young boy gazing over the mead- 
ows. The cool breeze brushed back the dark locks from 
his forehead, the sunlight glistened in his clear, dark 
eyes. His strong, handsome body was wrapped in a 
sheepskin; and a harp was slung over his shoulder. It 
was David, herding his father's flock,'!. 

Turning, he went to a shad\' nook under an olive-tree 
and began to play upon his harp. There was no sound 
save the breeze as it trembled in the olive-tree overhead 
and the mellow notes of the liarp as David's fingers 
wandered idh' o\-er the strings. 

Siiflrlenh-. there was a crv on the other side of the little 

hill and several frightened sheep came bounding toward 
David. J^aying down his harp, he mounted the hill and 
saw two sheep cowering beneath a thorn-bush. Ap- 
proaching them, stealthily, was a dark wolf, his head 
lowered, teeth set, uttering a low growl. David placed 
a pebble in his sling, there was a singing twang, and 
the missle whistled through the air, hit the wolf's flank 
with a stinging pain, and bounced off. With a yelp of 
pain, the wolf sprang forward, growling, and. with his 
fore feet on the sheep, lowered his head to tear it to 
pieces. But David sprang toward him ; and pinning him 
to the ground with his stafi', he struck the fierce creature 
a fatal blow on the head. 

When the sun was sinking behind the hills. David 
started homeward, the dead wolf thrown over his 
shoulder, his flocks bounding after him. But he never 
forgot the day when he had been just in time to save his 





(Honor Member) 

Thin pressed between the pages old and worn — 

A crisp and withered rose. My fancies leap 
To my lost sweetheart, who, one fair June morn. 

From her dear hand gave me that bud to keep. 
The blood drawn from her dainty finger when 

She plucked the rose, then sealed our hearts in love. 
The tender kiss seemed as a soft amen 

To me; perfection reigned, as heav'n above. 

This dream, inspired by withered flower's scent. 
Reveals a love whose radiant angel face 

Appears as though by Time's dark caverns lent. 
My heart to lift and decades to erase. 

I5ut then, yes, even as the phantom grows. 
It fades; I see naught but a withered rose. 



(Silver Badge) 

"Just in Time." When I think of that subject, there 

are many incidents that come to m>- mind, but one that 

I think of first is the Battle of Waterloo. 

How it was fought on June i8, 1815, near Waterloo 
.about ten miles from Brussels. 

How the British commander, Wellington, had fallen 
liack toward Waterloo, and the Prussians under Bliicher 
liad been defeated at Ligny. 










a^ ^....a 

«- ■•* 


^;; • -^Ji 






The British army was in the shape of a curve witli the 
center nearest tlie enenu'. Welhngton desired only to 
liold this position until Blucher and liis troops, who 
were some ten miles awa,\-. arrived. 

The opposing armies had about seventy thousand 
men each. Napoleon's men being war-worn veterans. 
while Wellington's men were mostly untrained Belgians. 
Brunswickers. Hanoverians, and English. 

The French army kept in the lead all the afternoon 
by brilliant, but costly, cavalry charges. 

By nightfall, when both armies were exhausted. 
Blucher arrived with reenforcements just in time to save 
the day. The battle turned against the French. Na- 
poleon, in a last ilesperate effort, launched the famous 
"Old Guard," against the enemy. This failed, and the 
allied army advanced in a bayonet charge. The French 
were soon in retreat. » 

This battle had the effect of removing forever from 
Europe Napoleon, with his great military genius and 
boundless ambition. 

What if Blucher and his troops had not arrived when 
thej' did? We do not know what the outcome would 
have been; but as long as he did come, we need not 
worry about it. 



(Silver Badge) 

Los Angeles, California. 
"Buddy" dear: 

I know you are interested in the achievements of 
Jack (whom, you will remember. I regard as the eighth 
wonder of the world), so "Listen, my child, and you shall 

It happened in this wise: the championship (foot-ball) 
game had reached the last quarter of the last half, no 
one "knocked out" seriously, score seven to seven, and 
everybody's hair standing on end with e.xcitement. for 
our men had fought their way down toward our goal 
and only had three more yards to make before the 
touchdown that would "put us on the map." Vou can 
imagine how tense we all were — every one leaning over 
every one else in their eagerness to see. and the "rooters" 

for the others shrieking frantically to their men, "Hold 
that line!" 

At that moment the men untangled themselves from 
the last scrimmage (I don't see how they know which 
leg belongs to which!), and there Jack lay. all white, 
and — apparently — ruined for life. You can imagine my 
feelings! He never, on any similar occasion had looked 
so frightfully long and limp, and I was petrified with 

It seemed centuries before he stirred, sat up. was 
helped to his feet, where he stood, swaying dizzily, — 
looking ready to collapse at the slightest touch. I knew 
that he had been hurt badly, but he pulled himself to- 
gether, dashed into the game, caught a forward pass, 
streaked across the line, and fell, unconscious again, 
just as the referee calleti, "Time"! 

Of course the crowd went wild and he was the hero 
of the hour, though he was n't conscious much of the 
time to appreciate it. 

And proud? I was perfectly insufferable I 
Yours ever, 







"a heading for JUNE." BY MARGARET \\-ESTOBY, AGE 13 



{Honor Member) 
I OPENED up a casket small. 

A faded fan there met my sight, 
And to my bended head arose 

A fragrance exquisite. 

As I stood there, my soul was borne 

Through ages past, so far away; 
I wandered in a garden fair 

At dusky twilight, close of da\'. 
The air was freshly damp and warm; 

The insects buzzed about my head ; 
An odor sweet and heavy rose 

From every Hower-bed. 

From roses lifting up their heads 

To catch the evening dew — 
Sweet roses, shining through the dus'^ 

With every lovely hue; 
Pink as the dawn, pure white as sno ,v, 

A deep blood-red, and yellow- 
gold — 
The perfume of those flowers fair 

Came from that garden old. 

From out my dream I slowly came. 

Back from that distant land. 
A dozen petals from a rose 

Were resting in my hand. 

"Well," he said when he had got his breath, "I was 
just in time, was n't I?" The conductor grinned and 
replied, "It was a close call, all right." As he said the 
last word, the car gave a sickening lurch and stopped. 
Some one who was looking out of the window an- 
nounced, "It 's off the track." 

"Oh!" groaned the man, "now I am in a nice mess. 
The wedding begins in five minutes. A case of being 
just in time to be late, I should say." 

It was fully twenty minutes before the car was again 
on the track. Those were excruciating moments for our 
hero. He twisted about, bit his lips, tried not to think 
of the wedding, and was altogether miserable. The car 
finally started again and the man got oft' at the ne.\t 
suburb just in time to see the bride and groom get into 
an auto and go speeding down the street, followed b\' the 
good wishes of their friends. 

"Well, my dears," he said, as he threw a handful of 
rice after the departing pair, "you caught each other 
just in time" (neither was very young) "and here 's 
hoping that as you journey through life together you 
may nr^'er get off the track.'" 



(Silver Badge) 
Dow.x a little winding roadside. 
Filled with flowers of every color. 
Where the wild birds are a-calling 
And the sun shines through the day, 
Blooms one flower most entrancing. 
Filling every breeze with fragrance 
From its nodding, swajing blossoms 
From its heart of purest gold. 

On its dewy-laden petals, 
Sparkling in the summer sunlight. 
Butterflies of rainbow brightness 
Kest and sip the sweetness there. 
While deei)-sheltered in its green 

Hidden, swaying with the breezes. 
Lives a nest of baby birdies 
Cooing softh- to themselves. 

Crowing, breathing in the sunlight. 
With its wild and simple beaut\- — 
Petals of a faint pink color. 
Gleaming under skies of blue — 
Filling all the world with brightnes.s, 
.\dding cheer to the wa\farers — ■ 
To all this, there is one answer; 
For this flow'er is a wild rose. 



(6'0/ii Badge. Silver Badge won 





(Gold Badge. Silver Badge won November, iQio) 
As the interurban street-car stopped at a small suburb a 
man came rushing down the street like a whirlwind. 
with the tails of his coat waving in the breezi' aufl his 
hat threatening to fly oft' at any moment. The con- 
ductor was in the act of giving the signal to start when 
the man yelled at him, came dashing into the car, and 
flopped exhausted into a seat. 

January, lQ2o) 
The outlook directly after the Rev- 
olutionary W'ar was not verj' promising for our new 
republic. During the war, the people had been united 
by common danger, but now that there was no fear, they 
were rapidly drifting apart. 

This condition was due to the poor form of govern- 
ment of that time under the Articles of Confederation. 
The articles contained man>* flaws, the main one being 
that it provided for no executive both* to enforce the 
laws. The national government had almost no power, 
while that of the state possessed uuicli. Instead of 
feeling as brothers toward each other, the people of one 




State became enemies of those in anotlier state. Some 
one has likened the union at this time to a barrel having 
no hoops. As there was nothing to hoM the union to- 
gether, it was falling apart, and thirteen foreign coun- 
tries, each having selfish notions of its own, with no re- 
gard for others, were being forinerl. 

The leaders of the country, seeing that something 
must be done to preserve the union, called a convention 
at Annapolis of delegates from all the states. As only 
tive states were represented, the plan was abandoneri 
until fall, when another convention, at which most of 
the states were represented, met at Philadelphia. 

After much debate, it was derided to plan a new form 
of government. The Constitution, under which wr 
to-day arc governed, was the production of this con- 

It \\'as submitted to the states for ratification. lMan\- 
were opposed to it. but finally it was ratified by all in 
1787. As every one familiar with American histnr\- 
knows, the Constitution contains none of the defects ot 
the former government, and soon, with Washington as 
our President, we were a happy and united peojile. 
It may be truly said that the Constitution came "just 
in time." 



(Silver Badge) 

The Seventy-seventh Division, U. S. Marines, was en- 
tirely surrounded by the Germans. The Argonne woods 
were infested by machine-guns, ^^hells whizzed, boomed, 
crashed. It was the fifth day that the 77th Division had 
been shut in. but still Major Whittlesey refused to sur- 
render. It was five days since the battalion had tasted 
food or water, except small morsels of emergency ra- 
tions, or had had an hour's uninterrupted rest. 

Cher Ami was a carrier-pigeon, the company's mas- 
cot. He had been forgotten in the midst of dying 
soldiers, in the midst of shot and shell, in the midst of 
intense suffering on every side. 

A soldier, looking for his kit, came across the cage in 
which Cher Ami was huddled in a corner, half dead with 
fright and hunger. He was sent out with a message. 
No sooner had the bird left the hands of the liberator, 
than one of its legs was shot off. The bird fluttered, 
started to fall, recovered itself, aufi flew on valiantly. 

(gold badge. silver BADGE WON MAY, IQIQ) 

Only one thing was calling him onward — home, home; 
to Cher Ami the one thought was home. 

A live mass of feathers, soggy with blood, fell into the 
hands of an orderly. It was Cher Ami. delivering the 
precious message. It was through this message that a 
detachment of soldiers was able to rescue what remained 
of the Lost Battalion. One hundred and ninety-four 
starved, crazed, and wounded heroes that had been 
without food, water, rest, sleep, shelter, or medical 
treatment for nearly six days, were saved through a 
faithful pigeon! 

This touching tale of a little bird bringing succor to 
the remainder of tlie Lost Battalion, "just in time" to 
save it from annihilation that seemed inevitable, will 
live in song and story for generations to come. 













(Silver Badge) 

A BRIGHT ray of sunshine flashed through the hospital 
window and lighted upon the pallid face of a young 
soldier. A doctor and a white-capped nurse were bend- 
ing over him with anxious faces. Finally, the doctor 
straightened up and glanced at the nurse. 

"If the general does not hurry, it will hardly be here 
in time." was all he said, as he passed on to the next 

The "it" which the doctor spoke of was the Victoria 
Cross. The young soldier who lay dying had won it by 
a glorious service; but there had been some unaccount- 
able delay in presenting it to him. He knew he was to 
receive it. his general had been there the day before, had 
praised him for his brave deed, and told him of the 
great reward that was coming to him. Now he was 
past recover\- and was slowly slipping away. His onh* 
wish was that he might have one look at that glorious 
medal as it lay pinned upon his breast. 

The day passed, and still no word from the general. 
The room was filled with the glow of an autumnal 
sunset. Suddenly, the door opened and three officers 
appeared and advanced to where the soldier lay. The 
foremost bore the insignia of a field marshal. As he 
bent over the bed, his strong dark features were strik- 
ingly outlined against the dying splendor of the sunset 
as it poured through the window. But the soldier felt 
only, with a thrill of happiness, the weight of the tiny 
piece of bronze pinned to his shirt, and the firm hand- 
grasp of the great soldier whom all England honored. 



In' a coal-mine near Wilkes- Barre a story is told of how 
a band of rats saved some miners" lives. The miners 
would feed the rats, for they knew that, while the rats 
were in the mine, the mine was safe. 

One day, the miners noticed that the rats were run- 
ning toward the slope; then they picked up their dinner- 
cans, and followed the rats. 

A few minutes after, the mine caved in. The men 
had left the mine just in time. 


A list of those whose work would have been used had space 


^'alenline Eskenazi 
Marv A. Holhrook 
Dorothy R. Burnfll 
Ronald M. Straus 
Dorothy Pond 
Elizabeth L. 
Joan Knight 
Margaret McCoy 
Betty Ellison 
Dorothy Trautwetn 

Nellie Van Orsdall 
Nance Xieman 
Jeanette Nathan 
Esther Gilkin 
Rosemary P. Brewer 
Edward T. Horn 
■ Elizabeth Sussman 
Elizabeth Leetc 
Glanville DoU'nry 
Eleanor P. \'ail 
Pauline Crockett 
Florence Finch 
Silvia A. 

Mari-aret A. 

Irtna Tillman 
A nnie M. Yoiinf^ 
Rosamohd Gardner 
Sarah Shir as 
Dorothy E. Snow 
Shirley WhiU 
Lois Mills 
Wilhrlmina Rankin 
Elizabeth T. Roberts 
Arthur Bissell, Jr. 
Carl Eardley 
Mildred Elpes 
Carol H. Hanigan 
Margaret Hoening 

Henriette Doltz 

Louis Cohen 
Barbara Blech 
Harriott Churchill 
Katherine TI'ooJ 
Margaret Waring 

Margaret Humphrey 
Margaret MacPrang 
Caroline Rankin 
Betty Brau-n 
Aline Fruhanf 
Katherine Foss 
Louise Steuart 
Elizabeth Brooks 
Margaret S. Terry 
Helen Preston 

Mahina Holcomp 
Mary Page 

Angelica S, Gibbs 
Eva Louise 

Josephine Rankin 
Dorothy Wilmrrding 
Nina Micheles 
Helen B. 


War then Bradley 
Isabelle Haskell 
C. F. Mielke 
Francis Harold 
Lucille Murphy 
Adelaide Noska 
Meredith A . Scott 
Amy Tatro 
Grace Hays 
Edith Barnes 
Teresa R. Rankitt 
Mary S. Bryan 
Francis Martin 

Frances W. Coppag 
Henrietta Steinkc 
Dorothy Eshleman 
Henry Kirby-Smilh 
Anna Marie 

Marcella Prught 
Rachel Hammond 
Norman Kastler 
Gladys R. Hall 
Ruth Baker 
Jean Hunter 
Lillian Ridenour 
Elizabeth McKinney 
Elizabeth Lovell 
Frederick M. 

Elizabeth Nash 
Douglas A nderson 
Elizabeth Farthing 
Elizabeth Gregory 
Katharine Nash 
Anne Parsons 
Mary C. Thompson 
Sallie Ford 
Grace Rarig 
Madeleine Edwards. 
Joseph N. Ulman, 

John Coru'les 
Helen Furst 
Rafael R. Peyrc 
Marion B. Simonds 
Anita C. Grrw 
Elizabeth Stuart 
E. H. Cassatt 
John //. Roue 
Caroline Harris 
Frances Robbins 
Thomas Grandin 

A list of those whose contributions were deserving of high 

CAUGUT tn" Thli CAMERA. BY MARY l-. 1UUM:»UN. AOfc. I5 



Grace H. Glover 
Catherine M. 

Marian Grant 
Minnie Pfeferberg 

Frances P. Davis 
Evelyn Richards 
Marie Louise 

I lornsby 
Mary Helen 

Helen Brossman 
Lillian Dreschcr 
Thdnias B. 

Louise E. 

Manila Hayes 
Marsarct E. Little 
Susan Hall 

Monica \. Harnden 
Meyer Lisbanoff 
Philena Weller 
Margaret Gott 
Celeste K,. Proctor 
Grace Mulholland 
Mar>- Elliot 
Janet L. Bullitt 
Jean Maisonville 
Jane N. Gotten 
Eunice Clark 
Alice De Lancey 

Carol McN'eely 
John Deschenes 
\\*illie Eitzen 
Rutli Xeumann 
(). P. Metcalf. Jr. 
Anne J. Davenport 
Nancy M. Pinkley 
Norma P. Rucdi 
Winifred B. Toozc 
Rcgina \\'iley 

Barbara D. Simison 
Dorothy DeGraff 
Edith E. Kearney 
Joyce W. Nye 
Mar>- Neal 

Mar>- Swornstedt 

Virginia Walles 

Sara Hayden 
Hilda ^L Abel 
Harriet T. Mason 
Man* Clark 
Elizabeth Warren 
Allen Mills 
Edith Olllne 
Eleanor Collins 
Katharine H. 

Margaret Reed 
Josephine Riddilc 



Edith Patch 
Inez L. Shaw 
Lou \V. ConkJin 
Margaret Copp 
Selmond W. Stone 
Winifred Dysart 
\'iola Wertheim 
Jean S. Baker 
Elisabeth Hodges 
Sophie Cohen 
Gwendolyn Ray 
Sophia H. Walker 
Marianna R. 

Mary Abby Hurd 
Gwynne M. Dresser 
Florence Frear 
Helen P. Carson 
Ellen J. Schorr 
Amy Armitage 
Clara Starck 
Jessie C. Smith 
Marjorie K. 

Janet Watson 
Pauline Averill 
Barbara Maniene 
Katharine 1>. 

Wood worth 
Elizabeth C. 

Glenn Kyker 
Margaret H. 

Margaret Sheridan 
Patricia Sheridan 
Jane Kluckhohn 
Josephine F. 

Elaine Brown 

Doris Kinciadc 
Barbara E. Watson 
Elizabeth Paisley 
Harriette Barnard 
Elizabeth Meader 

Catharine Stone 
Helen B. Jenks 
Gretchen N. 

Ruth Tikiob 
\'irginia Esselborn 
Anne B. Porter 
Lucy Smith 
Alfred Rakocy 
Margaret R. White 
Dorothy L. Bing 
Miriam L. 

Betty Devereux 


Harriet Dounes 
Frances Badger 
Marjorie I. Miller 
Ethel Durbin 



Keith S. Williams 
Marjorie W. Smith 
Doris Miller 
Theodore Hall. Jr. 

Louise W. AUard 
Elizabeth Genung 
Clara F. Greenwood 
Lucy F. Baldwin 

"my favorite sport" 
by emma c. bowne, age 15 



AGE 14 

Grace Griffin 
Marcia Tikiob 
Verl Goodwin 
Evelyn Owen 
Martha Everett 
Dorothy Jayne 
Louise Blanchard 

William Speer 



Gerald H.Taber 

Helen W. Doud 

Edna B. Marks 

Betty de 

Orole Williams 

Plead well 

Jessie Goodman 


Evelyn Balmer 


Margaret Blake 

Josephine Beals 

Charles B. 

Frances Miller 

Bruce H. Younger 
Thomas F. Webb 
Virginia G. Myers 
Muriel Howard 
Alice Bragdon 
Lucia G. Martin 
Anita Kellogg 

Oriole J. Tucker 
Natalie Johns 
Alma Miller 
Elizabeth M. 

Par melee 
Ruth Miescher 
Elisabeth V. 

Edna M. Royle 
Herbert J. 

Gold frank 
Jean Pattison 
Derexa Pentreath 
Medora Harrison 
Elizabeth Forman 
Marion Wadsworth 
Elaine Ervin 

Glee Viles 
Florence Goddard 

The St. Nicholas League is an organization of 
the readers of the St. Nicholas Magazine. 

The League motto is "Live to learn and learn to 

The League emblem is the "Stars and Stripes. 

The League membership button bears the 
League name and emblem. 

The St. Nicholas League organized in No\cm- 
bcr, 1899, became immediately popular with earnest 
and enlightened young folks, and is now widely rec- 
ognized as one of the great artistic educational 
factors in the life of American boys and girls. 

The St. Nicholas League awards gold and silver 
badges each month for the best nrigimil poems, 
stories, drawings, photographs, puzzles, and puzzle 


Competition No. 259 will close July 3. All con- 
tributions intended for it must be mailed on or 
before that date. Prize announcements will be 
made and the selected contributions published in 
St. Nicholas for October. Badges sent one month 

Verse. To contain not more than twenty-four 
lines. Subject, "FUght." 

Prose. Kssay or story of not more tiiree 
hundred words. Subject, "An Important Discovery." 

Photograph. Any size, mounted or unmounted; 
no blue prints or negatives. Young photographers 
need not print and develop their pictures thcm- 
sehes. Suliject, " In Suimner-Time." 

Drawing. India ink, verv black writing-ink, or 
wash. Subject, "A Bit of Life" or "A Heading for 

Puzzle. Must be accompanied by answer in full. 

Puzzle Answers. Best and neatest complete set 
of answers to puzzles in this issue of St. Nicholas. 
Must be addressed to The Riddle-box. 

No unused contribution can be returned unless it 
is accompanied by a self-addressed and stamped en- 
velop of proper size to hold the manuscript or picture. 


Any reader of St. Nicholas, whether a subscriber 
or not, is entitled to League membership, and upon 
application a League badge and leaflet will be sent 
free. No League member who has reached the age 
of eighteen years may compete. 

Every contribution, of whatever kind, must bear 
the name, age, and address of the sender and 
be indorsed as "original" by parent, teacher, or 
guardian, who must be convinced beyond 
doubt — and must state in writing — that the 
contribution is not copied, but wholly the work 
and idea of the sender. 

If prose, the number of words should also be added. 
These notes must not be on a separate sheet, but oh 
the contribution itself — if manuscript, on the upper 
margin; if a picture, on the margin or back. Write 
in ink on one side of the paper only. A contributor 
may send but one contribution a month — not one of 
each kind, but one only; this, however, does not in- 
clude "competitions" in the advertising pages or 
"Answers to Puzzles." 

Address: The St. Nicholas League, 
The Century Co. 
353 Fourth Avenue, New York. 


Christiania. Norway. 
Dear St. NicHot-.\s: I am staying with my aunt and 
uncle for a year in Norway. This summer we are going 
for a trip on the fjords and we arc also going salmon- 
fishing, which must be great sport. Norwaj- is a beau- 
tiful country covered with mountains, and wth snow- 
most of the year. 

I am very much interested in "The Dragon's Secret," 
and "The Luck of Dcnewood." 

I got a Hardanger peasant dress for Christmas. It 
has a black skirt, white waist, a red bodice with a red 
belt, a cap covered with beads, and a white apron. 
Your loving reader. 

Frances Rodgers (age 14). 

Bradford, Mass. 
Dear St. Nicholas: I have taken you nearly two 
years and enjo\' \'ou very much. My sister and I 
always have a scramble to get you first. 

Four \ears ago m\- mother brought my sister and me 
to America from Japan. We did n't know a single 
word of English, though, before we came here. Mother 
was teaching us A-B-C. 

1 enjoy all your stories, but among those that interest 
me most are Augusta Huiell .Seaman's stories. I thought 
"The Crimson Patch," was very interesting, and I like 
"The Dragon's Secret" very much. 

I am always an.\ious to get you. 

Your devoted reader, 

KiMi G. Tamur.v (.-vge 13). 

Mt. Ple.\sant, Iowa. 
Adorable St. Nicholas: Don't you like to know 
when you help any one? I do, and that 's the very 
reason I 'ni writing this. 

I belong to the Pioneer Corps of the Girl Reserves and 
we had planned a \alentine party at which the\- wanted 
me to give a reading. -A (>irl Reserve will not refuse 
what is asked of her, so I found a poem and learned it 
the first of the week, but about a hall an hour before. 
when 1 thought it over, it seemed inappropriate. But 
what could I do? And then, all of a sudden. I thought 
of you — "the very thing!" It did n't take long to find 
the most adorable poem, which every one liked. 

So you see you were the friend indeed that helped a 
friend in need. 

Your admiring reader, 

Jane D. Wilso.v. 

Haughton, La, 
Dear St. Nicholas: I have taken you for two or three 
years, and have certainly enjoyed you during that time. 
My mother suggested that I take you to the school 
this winter, and I did. My, how they scrambled for 
>ou ! Every month now I take you there, and they all 
want you first. We work the puzzles out, but never 
send them in. 

We all like "The Luck of Denewood." Every one 
wants to read that first. I like "riic Dragon's Secret'" 
best. "The ("rimson Patch" and "The Slipper Point 
Mystery" were good too. 

Your devoted reader, 

Clara Tucker (age ii). 

Hudson, O, 
Dear St. Nicholas: One of Mother's Christmas 
gifts to me was you. She gave \'ou to me for a year, 
but I ran hardly imagine not having you next year 
also. For three months I have watched very eagerl>' 

for each magazine. I sometimes wish you came oftencr. 
but I have the pleasure of thinking of the stories and 
poems you will bring the next month, after I have read 
each magazine. 

I was very glad to receive the certificate showing 
that I am now a member of the Le.^gue. I proudly 
wear my membership button, and 1 hope I shall get a 
silver or gold badge before I am eighteen. We are going 
to frame the certificate, and hang it on the wall in nn- 

I took the March number to school, on Friday, 
March 4, and suggested to m\- teacher that the maga- 
zine could be passed from one pupil to another and 
each one read the stor>- of one president's inauguration. 
We did it in place of history. 

Thanking you again for membership in the Le.\gue, 
I am 

Your delighted reader, 


Fort Qu' Appelle, Saskatchewan, Canada. 
Dear St. Nicholas: I read the Letter-box every 
month, but I have not yet seen a letter from this part 
of Canada, so I thought I would write one to tell you 
that I live on the site of the Hudson's Bay Company's 
post, established here in 1858. It was here. also, that 
the Indians of the Northwest Territories made the first 
treaty with the Government, in September, 1874. A 
monument was erected here in 1915 to commemorate 
this treat\-. Wishing every success to the League, I 

Your atTectionate reader, 
Fr.\nces G. McDon.\ld (age 12). 


Boarding-School-on-Hudson, New York. 
Dear N.\ncv: This is a kind of birthday letter, al- 
though it will probably come before your birthday. 
Is n't it a grand and glorious feeling to be six! I shall 
listen on the night before your birthday for the bang 
that alwa>'S comes at midnight. In the midst of this 
explosion. \ou will grow to be six. 
This is a movie: 

i. at five minutes of 


At five minutes of twelve, Nancy is sound asleep in 
picture l. .As twelve o'clcxrk strikes, there is a loud 
explosion. The bed-clothes fly all over! .-\t five min- 
utes past twelve. Nancy is asleep again and ever\-thing 
looks as if nothing had happened, biil Nancy has grown 
several inches taller. Don't let me frighten you with 
these pictures, for. to tell the truth, the birthday girl 
never feels the explosion at all. I know, for I have had 
.seventeen birthda>"s! So don't worr\". Be on the watch 
for six cages full of bear-hugs which arc on their wax' to 
you. From 

Sister Janet. 
(J wet Blossom, Gr.\duate of St. Nicholas League) 




Double Zigzag. From i to 2, Little Rock; 3 to 4. Mont- 
gomery. Cross-words: I. Loam. 2. Riot. 3. Ants. 4. Taft. 

5. Ogle. 6. Peon. 7. Ream. 8. Poet. 9. Arcs. 10. Yolk. 
Arithmetical Puzzle. Mary was is, Tippy. 5. 

Double Acrostic. Primals. Hepatica; finals. Marigold. 
Cross-words: i. Harm. J. Edna. 3. Pear. 4. Anti. 5. Twig. 

6. Into. 7. Coal. 8. Amid. 
A Riddle. Pepper. 

An' Obelisk. First row. Warren Harding; fourth row, Calvin 
Coolidge. Cross-words; i. X. 2. She. 3. Gorge. 4. Needy. 
5. India. 6. Dally. 7. Rigor. S. -\rrow. 9. Hunch. 10. 
Ninny. 11. Eerie. 12. Reave. 13. Rally. 14. .\ltar. 15. 


"The year 's at the spring 
And day 's at the morn." 
Charade. Boss-ton. Boston. 

Met-^morphoses. I. Rake. rate, date, dare. dart. dirt. 2. 
Dirt, dart. cart. 3. Cart, carp, camp, damp, dump. 

Pi. May shall make the world anew. 
Golden sun and silver dew, 
Money, minted in the sky. 
Shall the earth's new garments buy. 

Triple Beheadings and Triple Curtailings. Shakespeare. 
I. Sen-sit-ive. 2. Wit-her-ing. 3. Imp-art-ial. 4. Moc-kin- 
gly. 5. Imp-end-ing. 6. Pre-sum-ing. 7. Com-pan-ion. 8. 
Int-err-upt. 9. Adv-ant-age. 10. Int-rod-uce. 11. Tol-era-ted. 

King's Move Puzzle. Augusta Huiell Seaman: 81-71-62-63 
72-80-70-61-51-50-42-52-60-69-79-78-68-77-76. Three Sides of 
Paradise Green: 67-59-49-4I-33-34-44-4S-S4-S3-43-3S-36-26-25- 
24-23-13-12-20-30-21-11-3-2. The Crimson Patch: i-io-ig-29-38- 
28-37-47-35-46-56-65-64-73-74. The Slipper Point Mysterj': 75- 

To Our Puzzlers: .Answers to be acknowledged in the magazine must be matted not later than July 3. and should be addressed 
to St, Nicholas Riddle-box, care of The Century Co., 353 Fourth Avenue, New York City. N, Y. 

Solvers wishing to compete for prizes must comply with the League rules (see page 76s) and give answers in full, following the 
plan of those printed above. 

Answers to all the Puzzles in the March Number were duly received from Mason T. Record — Ruth Tangier Smith — St, 
Anna's Girls — "Pattv Duffy." 

Answers to Puzzles in the March Number were received from Rachel Hammond. 9 — Virginia Ball — John F. Davis. 9— 
"Eighth Grade," Slavton, 9 — No name, 9— Kemper Hall, 8 — Dorothy Donaldson, 8 — Elsie Wiese, 7 — Dorothy Marshick, 7 — 
Harriet Rosewater, 6 — Mary I. Fry. 6 — Esther Tollefson, 5— Margaret Gorton, 5— Bettina Booth, 5 — Edward E. Wendell. 5 — Jule 
Jenkins, 4— Hortense .^. Doyle, 3— Josephine M, Miller, 3— Carlan S. Messier. 3— E. B. McClox. 2— J. V. Gilbert, 2 — F. Dekum, 
2— M. Scattergood, 2 — M. Scholter. 2 — E. W. Johnston, 2 — K. Kahler. J— R. E. Nason. 2— V. Drew, 2 — M. Gherini, 2. One 
puzzle. A. L. LeJ.— E. B. N.— C. McC— M. G.— M. A.— M. C— V. S.— O. B.— F. T. B. Jr.— J. A.— M. W.— J. G.— C. I.— P. F. 
—J M.— E. M. T.— W. K. B.— V. C— B. M.— E. G.— W. S.— M. M.— L. S.— M. W. O.— M. R.— .\. H.— G. M.— M. S.— D. S.— 
N. S. C— A. G. D.— H. L. B.— M. E.— E. I. P.— D. W. E.— A. D.— M. J.— R. T. R.— W. B. L— G. G. H.— J. T.— P. A. M.— 
L. B.— C. B.— F. C. K.— G. LeR— M. C— A. A. P.— M. B.— P. G.— A. C— M. B.— M. E. W.— F. H.— S. B. 


(Silver Badge, St. Nicholas LE.\(it:E Competition) 
There are six geographical names in which every sec- 
oiitl letter is a vowel; moreover, all the vowels are the 
same. The names are those of two cities, two countries, 
one desert, and one river. What are these six geograph- 
ical names? alice wilkins (age 10). 

Ex.\mple: 'What aunt is a metal ? Answer: Anti- 

1. What aunt is a swift animal? 

2. What aunt is an ocean? 

3. What aunt goes before? 

4. What aunt lived before the war? 

5. What aunt is a square hall or court? 

6. What aunt is ever looking into the future? 

7. What aunt is part of a deer? 

8. What aunt is an adversary? 

9. What aunt is ver\' old? 

10. What aunt is devoted to the study of ancient times 
through their relics? 

MARY CATHERINE HAMILTON (age 12), League Member. 


(Silver Badge, St. Leagite Competition) 

The words described contain six letters each. When 

rightly guessed and written one below another, the 

initial letters will spell what every scholar hopes to do. 

Cross-words; i. A Hebrew liberator and reformer 

who probably lived in the 13th century B. C. 2. A 
timorous little animal. 3. To attract. 4. A dainty 
fabric. 5. .\bove. 6. Emphasis. 7. A sacred edifice. 
8. ro inveigle. 

The forty-eight letters of which these words are com- 
posed, counting from left to right and in the order given, 
will spell: 3-11-26-41-5-21-13, the scholar's treasure; 
8-39-9-46-23-20-5-35, what urges the scholar onward; 
S-14-21-31-39-28-37-38-7, the object of the scholar's 
deepest regard, betty dering (age 11). 


(Silver Badge, St. Nicholas League Competition) 
This puzzle begins with a letter; the second word de- 
scribed contains two letters, the third, three, and so on 
to the eleventh word which contains eleven letters. The 
eleven final letters of the eleven words will spell a mag- 
nificent pleasure-ground. 

Cross-words; i. In Wyoming. 2. A pronoun. 3. 
The whole. 4. A game. 5. A musical instrument. 6. 
A color. 7. Certain young animals. 8. One who pre- 
pares homilies. 9. An "armored" animal. 10. Deep 
sorrow for sin. 11. To reduce in bulk and so increase in 



I. In spacious. 2. A common vehicle. 3. A certain 
beautiful city. 4. Extensive. 5. In spacious. 

TOMMY BALDWIN (age lo), League Member. 






9i llwkf^J 

In this puzzle the words are pictured instead of de- 
scribed. When the eleven objects have been rightly 
named and written one below another, the central let- 
ters, reading downward, will spell a very famous 
document that was signed on June 15, many years ago. 


Ex.uiPLE: Words pronounced alike but spelled dif- 
ferently. Unfurnished: An animal. Answer: bare, 

1. Just: food. 

2. To incline; a legal claim. 

3. .^ tool; everything. 

4. Illustrious; a fireplace. 

5. To expire; to color. 

6. .■\ mounting upward; concurrence. 

7. A pronoun; a tree. 

The initials of the first words, and the initials of the 
second words also, will spell a day observed by all true 

GWENFREAD E. .\LLEN (age 15). Honor Member. 


"Wy first expresses deep content. 
My last gives warmth and glow; 

My whole is very evident, — 
Vou 're it yourself, you know. 



.■\11 the words described contain the same number of 
letters. When rightly guessed and written one below 
another, the initial letters will spell a flower that is never 
used for decoration. 

Cross-words: i. A large animal. 2. A fruit. 3. 
.A, relative. 4. -A. kind of cloth. 5. A lazy person. 6. 
Finely ground meal. 7. .A. spear. 8. Detestation. 9. 
To vacillate. 10. A number. 11. Competitor. 

RUTH MacLEOD (age 14), League Member. 


(Siher Badge. St. Nichol.^s LE.A.t;uE Competition) 
Example: Take a vehicle and a snare from a small 

chest of drawers and leave a letter. .Answer: Cab-i- 

net. In each case leave a letter. 

1. Take to tap and direction, from a road. 

2. Take equal value and a darling, from a low wall. 

3. Take a vehicle and a play of Euripides, from a 
repulsive substance. 

4. Take an edict and a receptacle, from a large paste- 
board box for hats. 

5. Take a large vessel and a metal receptacle, from the 
palace of the popes. 

6. Take an implement for writing and an emmet, from 
a small flag. 

7. Take to capture and an epoch, from luggage. 

8. Take an animal and its foot, from a dupe. 

9. Take a masculine name and silent, from the 
greatest quantity. 

10. Take a useful Uttle article and consumed, from 

11. Take a vehicle and direction, from an aromatic 

12. Take a finish and a color, from tolerated. 

13. Take to drag and an era, from baggage. 

14. Take a kind of ribbed cloth and a masculine 
nickname, from estimated. 

15. Take conflict and an insect, from justification. 

16. Take a pronoun and a color, from clipped close. 

17. Take a warm covering and a pronoun, from addi- 

18. Take a human being and relatives, from a dwarf. 

19. Take a wager and to know, from to portend. 

20. Take a lady's ornament and a conspicuously 
brave airman, from a small boat. 

The twenty single letters will spell an occasion of 
national interest. eliz.abeth b.\rton (age 17). 




I. Upper, Left-h.\.nd Diamond: i. In courtesy. 
2. The cry of an animal. 3. Artful. 4. A feminine 
name. 5. In courtesy. 

II. Upper, Right-h.\xd Di.vmond: i. In courtesy. 
2. .A beverage. 3. Barm. 4. .V serpent. 5. In courtesy. 

III. Centr.\l Square: i. .A. pleasure boat. .'. .A 
sacred name among Arabs and Mohammedans. 3. 
Near at hand. 4. Metal straps used with padlocks. 5. 
A pronoun. 

IV. Lower. Left-h.\nd Di.v^iond: 
2. .A chart. 3. -A piece of furniture. 4. 
forth. 5. In courtesy. 

V. Lower, Right-hand Diamond: 
2. .A number. 3. To penetrate. 4. 

OLGA F. J. and ENA l. h. {League .Members). 

I. In courtesy. 
To go back and 

I. In courtesy. 
A fish. 5. In 


"^^i, ki^i^ 

;iii;v HAD Ki:.\(iii%i) ami-.kica ai' \..\sir ^sl•■,l■■. i-Ai.i-: sohj 


I'tifjlic Library 

^JWCE, vi>5 



JULY, 1921 

Copyright, 1921, by The Century Co. All rights reserved. 

No. 9 



Photographs by the U. S. Army Air Service, Western Division 

A NEW romantic figure has appeared in the West. 
With the gradual passing of the range-rider and 
the Northwest Mounted Police has come another 
hero for the writers of boys' stories. The Cali- 
fornia lad of to-day, with a lo\e for adventure 
and the Great \\'est, no longer dreams of becom- 
ing an Indian-fighter or a cowboy. His ambition 
is to join the Airplane Patrol — to fly over forests 
of giant redwoods, to peer into the crater of a 
volcano, to top snow-clad mountains in midsum- 
mer, and skirt deep gorges in the fastnesses of the 
high Sierras. 

The Airplane Patrol was organized shortly after 
the close of the war by the United States Forest 
Service as an experiment in detecting and fight- 
ing forest fires. The aid of the Air Service of the 
United States Army was sought, and army avia- 
tors with planes were readih' placed at the disposal 
of the forest service. Ordinarily, the army does 
not like to engage in ci\il pursuits, on the ground 
that it takes the time of the soldier from training 
for war. But the patrol of the national forests liy 
airplanes appeared to be as close an approach to 
actual war fl>'ing as could be expected in time of 
peace. Experienced army a\'iators decided that 
the Airplane Patrol was the best practice in prep- 
aration for actual warfare. 

In airplane-patrol work, there is aerial photog- 
raphy, reconnaissance, map-making. nia];)-read- 
ing, and message-carr>ing. There is no stunt-fly- 
ing or dodging enemy planes in airplane-patrol 

work; but there are elements of danger in fl>ing 
low over forest fires, and trying to find a soft 
landing-spot among craggy mountains when the 
motor goes wrong. The national forests are for 
the most part in the mountains, far from fields 
and open meadows which might afford safe land- 
ing-places for planes. 

Commencing with a handful of men and a half- 
dozen indifferently good planes in the summer of 
igiq, the Airplane Patrol is to-day a highly de- 
veloped organization engaged in protecting from 
fire the forests of the Pacific coast all the way from 
Canada to Mexico. Twenty-one million acres of 
national forests, containing one hundred and ten 
billion feet of standing timber, worth two hundred 
and twent>' million dollars, are patrolled daily by 
airplanes during the summer season, when fires 
are prevalent. In addition, almost an equal 
amount of prixate timber is patrolled at the same 

The .'\irplane Patrol is designed to supplement 
the work of the men in the forest lookout-stations. 
The observers in the lookouts are on duty all the 
time, while the aviators are in the air only a few 
hours daily. But the field of vision from the 
lookout-station is limited by ranges of hills and 
moimtains, while the aviators can obscrv^e the 
entire country. In California, w-here the .Airplane 
Patrf)l originated, there are now six stations from 
which axiators make daily round-triias oxer desig- 
nated routes. The stations are at axiation fields, 



AN AEUIAI. \ 1IA\ 111 I 111. ■. o .1 Mill. \ .VI.l.l.N , 1.1. I ,\rn.\N .\ I I 111 I Li 1 








^'v>^;':w -^^^ -iS^? 





t.'U.l. '_i: DLK CU.Mi, .Ml. L.;. I,., i:. IIIL (.LUUUb 




near cities, where fuel and supplies can be easily 
secured. The planes, in consequence, have to go 
a number of miles before the>' reach the forests in 
their daily trips. The usual procedure for a plane 
bearing a pilot and an observer is to start out at 
nine o'clock in the morning and fly two hours to 
the end of the patrolman's "beat," a distance of 
about two hundred miles. A landing is made at 
noon for luncheon and rest, and the return trip 
o\-er the same route is made during th';- middle of 

NliAk \ii,\\ ot ciMJtk CoMi 

the afternoon. Records show that most forest 
fires start between eleven o'clock in the morning 
and three o'clock in the afternoon, so the fliers 
endeavor to keep in the air as much as possible 
during these hours. 

In southern California, the patrol routes are so 
arranged that the fliers from one station meet 
those from the next one at the noonday stop. 
The observers can thus exchange information and 
pass along orders and news of the service. In 
northern California the patrol routes are roughly 
oval in shape, and the planes do not traverse the 
same ground twice in one day. Men are usually 
confined to one route the entire season, in order 
that they ma\' become thoroughly acquainted 
with the country- o\er which the>' pass, and ha\c 
in their minds mental photographs of e\cry square 
mile of their district. They are thus able to keep 
track of campers, tiinbermen, and others who 
may cause forest fires, and they learn the locations 
of all roads, so they can direct fighters by the 
shortest route to any conflagrations disco\ered. 

Last sunnner the planes flew a total of four 
hundred and forty thousand miles, with only three 
fatalities, all occurring in one accident, when a 

plane fell in a landing-field at Alturas, in northern 
California. Record of the work done b>' the aerial 
observers shows that the patrols detected and 
located the majorit>- of the fires in the national 
forests with a degree of accuracy running above 
eighty per cent. The percentage of accuracy is 
graded thus: within a quarter of a mile, lOO per 
cent.; within half mile, 75 per cent.; within one 
mile, 50 ])er cent.; within two miles, 25 per cent. 
Although it has been found necessary for planes 

_^ to traverse definitely 

marked routes, yet 
when an observer sees 
smoke some distance 
away and cannot lo- 
cate it accurately, he 
is permitted to lea\e 
his beat and approach 
near enough to a fire to 
locate its exact position. 
Then he can, b\- means 
(if wireless, with which 
everj- plane is equipped, 
notify- the nearest for- 
est-station to send 
lighters to the scene of 
the fire. The planes fly, 
nrdinarily, at an alti- 
tude ranging from eight 
to twelve thousand feet, 
and the observers can 
-see the country for 
fifteen miles on either 
side of their circuits in clear weather. 

A high degree of technical skill has been found 
necessan.- for the best results in detecting forest 
fires, so this year the Interior and War Depart- 
ments have joined in establishing a school to 
train airplane patrolmen. 

During the long, dr\-, rainless, California sum- 
mers, when two or three fires sometimes start in a 
single day, the planes are often used to carrj' fire- 
leaders from one spot to another. In the sparsely 
settled neighborhoods of the national forests, it is 
often difiicult to find enough trained, experienced 
men to keep down all the blazes which continualh' 
arise. Fire-fighting has come to be a .science 
requiring con.siderable skill. So in emergencies a 
patrolman will often, on disco\ering a fire and 
knowing there is no trained man around to lead 
in extinguishing it, take up the nearest forest- 
ser\ice expert and convey him to the scene of 
action, there to direct the efforts of unskilled 
firemen. Such a journey, made in a few minutes 
by plane, would often take hours, or even days, 
when attempted through trackless forests. After 
getting the control work under way, and showing 
a grouji of men how to backfire without starting 



another destructive conflagration, the forest- 
service expert can be carried in a plane in a few 
minutes to direct the work of putting out anotlicr 

When fires are in progress and men are unusu- 
ally scarce, as thej' have been for the last two 
seasons, a plane is often assigned to patrol a fire- 
line, which has been cleared, so as to watch the 
conflagration when it reaches the strip from 
w hich brush has been removed. One plane here 
can replace a dozen or more men who are ]:)atrol- 
ling a front. If the fire jumps the cleared spot, the 
jiatrolman can immediately notify the fighters 
and bring them back to extinguish the blaze. 
Having done this, they can go away to other 
places where the>' are needed, leaving the plane 
again on guard. 

DeHaviland and Curtis planes, with Liberty 
motors, are generally used in airplane-patrol work 
in the United States. In Canada, where the great 
forests are dotted with lakes, seaplanes have been 
found more adaptable. Private lumber firms in 
Canada are using planes more extensi\ely than 
the Government. Heads of big lumber compan- 
ies, who formerly knew little of actual logging 
ojaerations, because journeys into the wilds took 
them away from their offices for long periods, now 
can fly in a few hours to any place they desire to 

visit. An airplane journey lasting half an hour 
replaces a two-day canoe-trip. 

Laying out roads, getting lines for surveyors, 
estimating timber, locating camp-sites, photo- 
graphing and mapping the country for buying or 
selling operations, are among the labor-sa\ing 
tasks of the airplanes in the Canadian forests. 
The planes are even used to carry supplies to 
surveyors and others in isolated jjlaces. 

When airplane-patrol work was started in the 
LInited States, more or less friction developed 
between the men of the forest ser\ice and the 
army. Soldiers found strict army discipline almost 
unbearably irksome when they daily compared it 
with the rather free life of the forest -service men, 
alongside of whom they worked. This has been 
corrected, the soldiers and the forest-service men 
being detailed to separate, distinct tasks, so there 
will be no unpleasant comparisons between soft 
and hard jobs. 

The .Airplane Patrol was devised by Paul G. 
Redington, District Forester for the Department 
of Agriculture, with headquarters at San Fran- 
cisco, and Colonel H. H. Arnold, of the Air Serv- 
ice. Colonel Arnold is the man who handled the 
western terminus of the transcontinental round- 
trip race of army aviators, which attracted 
national attention two vears ago. 


Busily sewing- , y^eaelop^ J^JTtSlit 
"Very demure in the dooi-wciy ssti 


jvisih' Sewing, f@nel@p 
j^^^^^ "Veiy demure iJi tke doojrw&y ,Va.'t<> 
^^^^uruliig hej' Ijneiv 
■■'•^Y*'^^ ■\vouldi\t l\av 

"•"* jewing a. $ea.xn.% 
tkouakt /ii>e "W'a.S_ dreflining' 

J^ kl$ quaint lUtle Itt^d, very modest'*'"' Staid, 

vvitk kei* eycs on. Ker i\eedl<- awA tkrcfld, , , 

iDut tkcrc is no knowmg wKeie tJiongJtf^'i may \>f, going;, ''^^ 
/And tki^ is -wkat ran inker kead i 

i^' S » feel in iny bonei tkat Id I>rller tegln 

fe<^V.$''^' X T° plan. Tvkat I''ll do -wJieu m^' ^-^^^P comei in-, 

.^^vvvt I^ 'J»«^«'iS '"Of'ey enougl\ ^tf/jc/ of course tjiere v\-'J/J he! \ 
S^^^^'-' y*\y f<a.tKer %\\a)\ kave a fine present from nve, '-, 
|^v55x^^;\ V\?»^''7H°t-ker ,sKalI drey^ all tKe re^t of kcr life' ''| 

l^V.^.? ''VJ^^iyXj* S'^y '^'^ ^"^ Huguenol mcrckantjs "wife 

^i^^'J^f^^-^iSiS I ^1 oi'der r\\y brotkei'j 5ome fajklonable rjo;^. 

liver ^Koe-liuckleS ''"° plenty "f vvrig^. 

|i;>VK /^""i sister skall ktive kei- a silli capuckin 

^^nd a red velvet go-wu tliit is fit for'' qfueen; 
\)i dainty roge-point skdll ker ^tonia.cker be, 

_^nd tke frilly of lier ,^Ieeve5 willte kandjome to^ee 
_ ]3"t <>* f""" my^ek', tkePe is 50 nvuck I want 
j^^J^ "Vt T 11 kave to spend Somtime a-tkinking upon^t , 
IJi^^^ yV"*^ ^ feel in my lionc^ I would belter beg-in 
nobody Know^ wken 

awe's S^'P 


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liougk ^Irarij^e it mdv ^eem. 1 %\'a^ tKe very next Aay y 
f l»at a. sKip in tke kartoi' of ^l%@.wle^i&U. lavy 
' JR lo>v-i\ from licr Course lij- <a luffeting gale, t' 

— virippeJ to ker mas'S i ^"^ ^'"' crippled io jail 
^^na not even lillle 'F®a©le»® P^Tfltt 
-^- Oould fortune expect from a vessel like tka{ U 
j^Jul the good Carojiniang cLose to te kind;; /J 

_ -^PT\e dougkt.v old captain was kapp;y to find /*■ 

jTKaCike^jr cared for Kis cre-vv *" ike^ cKeered up kis mind/^/'^ '!(sj]^,' 
/\nd ivlicn Ke was ready agiain. ""''•"''Sea, 

I a like to do 5onietkit\0* to pay* a'ou, .<aid 1 

^/'Jl| ^^ lieii tke cJayS a"^ the week^ a"* tke JnonthS vvent W, 
■TBf' -A.'"' ^ year5 flewr A'wdiy' like a »ircl in the ^ky; 
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K or ikotirfk ^ke'j Leen iautfkl to Le .Soter' of Ikouflii^ ' ' •/i'&l;V«^^.i»Sj''*} <?H 

I o fancjy "tke maid was inclined •, 
((_)k,tkere is no telling ivKere dreamS 
/inJ ihi^ i^ ii'hai ran in Le 



'ler nuuo 

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£if V^ 



wa^ ike 

?; litfkt «/■ a dfeam. 

' W i^^^^ ■ ''**^ > ■^'k'>t -would our y^filojry ever" hdv-e been 

■ -^«^ ^l!aS»\ T f it Lad n't Lave KaTjpened Ler sLip cameirt. 
^^S^ -iv"*! ""**' tkat I lliinKof il^liuly ji ^eeiu^ 

^ '©Tt- '"^r ■ 'T*^'* Colony"^ ySLip waS iLe jfej^ «|'"' toy j3?&sttBi 
EaLgi Hf, ^oT- out of iKe r\cK came W\e Xreasurc J iougkt - 

Tke ritf>' """^ tke wig^ "'"'tke lurkjes were kougkt 

ed velvet 

fVown A 

^^ tke ^ilk trapucLln 1,!^^^ 

A fc*tkei-3'*'"*fans tkatwere fit for a ^ueeu; 

#'. /,«■"', l^'M^ r And AXotkef C«>i dre^i! aH tl»^e re^t of Lcr iifi^^Kk'mwi 

'■ ?'"ti?'l;ji '.4^!^ J /\;* fine as live ffugiienot merchant^ ^^ *^ 'iv ■i0^''f/y 
'■(.^•V 4m^\ F*"'- Larvest^ are ample a""' kring a good ^vice i^^'-f^JJ 
ri't'^'ii'?' "v \\%f^ '\ \il\ce our ^ oioriy joined jn LKe tfrow-mg.' »»' ''**' ^/At^CjiT 

h'.*"'?v 'iVfP'M Vince our t- < 

!J^?^~;^JJ^j^^^lfSC^^ I ''*^' '"* •">' ^'<"»*"S "^ '^ time to l.ejf" 

To Count up W\c ble5<ing< ^ 

-<P-^, ^ 





**A tongue of nature to the hearts of men" — Emerson, 

The road was long and hot and dusty. The house 
was \'er>' far away. Little John looked at the 
long stretch, then at the great black bird circling 
in the sk\' abo\e him. His heart beat so fast he 
scarcely could breathe. He was sure of two things. 
First, that the bird meant to swoop down upon 
him. Second, that his three-year-old legs never 
could carry him into the shelter of home before 
that dreadful pounce. 

He looked about in terror. A stone fence bor- 
dered the road. Li an instant, he was crouched 
under an overhanging stone, peering out at the 
big bird, until at last it soared out of sight in the 
blue sky. So ended the first of John o' Birds' Hfe- 
long adventures with his little brothers of the air. 

His mother told him he had seen a hawk, but 
little John could find no one to name the small 
blue bird with a black throat and white wing- 
spots that flitted from branch to branch of the 
bush under which he lay one bright Sunday in 
Ma>'. Away in the back of his menior>' he tucked 
a picture of the tiny beauty. Twenty years later 
he looked at it again, and cried out, "That was a 
black-throated blue warbler!" 

Many, many such pictures he put away — that 
was one of his "odd" ways. Another was his 
liking to go off by himself in the woods and fields. 
One March evening he slipped away to the 
marsh and crept in among the rushes. There he 
crouched, as motionless as the old log on which he 
sat. He meant to discover the little piper who 
whistled there so cheerily- everj' e\ening. 1-ong 
he waited, but at last, up a rush by his right hand 
a tiny frog, not an inch long, began to climb. 
1 land over hand the wee creature went up to the 
\ery tip of the swaying rush. Then out swelled 
liis bit of a throat, and right in little John's ear 
sounded a shrill pipe. 

The next instant his hand closed gently o\er 
the midget — -so gently that, after his first surprise 
was over, Master Ihia went on with his inter- 
rupted song. 

Still another "odd" way little John had was 
that of going to the "big rock" to see the sun set. 
Tens of thousands of >'ears before, a great glacier 
had drop])ed this big boulder in the field. By its 
side a protecting tree had grown up. Near it, a 
spring bubbled from the ground. Sometimes the 
little boy came early to the sunset pageant that 
he might have lime to listen to the flickers calling, 
' Wickey, wickey, wickey," to the bobolinks sing- 
iiig in the meadows below. Sweetest of all, as the 

sun dropped behind the mountains, he might hear 
the vesper sparrow trilling his exening hymn. 
The little boy lo\ed this twilight lime, when peace 
was abroad on all the world. 

This "odd un," as the neighbors called him, 
wanted a swimming-hole. The other boys 
laughed, but John set to work. Across the brook, 
he built a dam — a good solid wall as high as his 
head. To build it took many da>s of hard work. 
It meant carrying load after load of sod and stone. 
It meant standing in water waist deep, while each 
piece was fitted into its place. But what a swim- 
ming-hole he had when the wall was finished ! So 
well he had built it that for o\er seventy years it 
stood firm and sound. 

Oddly, so it seemed to the other boys, John o' 
Birds loved to read. Sometimes this eight-year- 
old boy would come upon sentences so eloquent 
he felt he must share them with his brothers. 
Aloud he would read, thrilled with the march of 
the words. But the bo>s only stared, hearing the 
words, indeed, but all unmoved by the beauty 
they expressed. Perhaps they thought to them- 
selves, "This is another of John's odd ways." 

He was different. Sometimes as he wandered 
alone over high upland jjastures seeking a stra>" 
sheep or a lost cow, he would suddenly find life so 
beautiful he just had to run, to jump, to shout for 
joy. For at such times just to live was such 
ecstasy that the little bo>' could not contain the 

When he was thirteen, some men and women 
met to plan for opening an academy in the little 
town. So eager was this "odd un" to learn that 
he attended the meeting — the only boy there! 
The academy did not come to the village, but 
John o' Birds jihidded on alone, copying in a 
little book ever\' unfamiliar word he heard or 
found in his reading. One evening he heard a 
lecturer refer to the "Encyclopedia Britannica." 
He liked the sound of the words, so down lhc>- 
went in his note-book, and o\er and o\er he rolled 
them under his tongue as he went about the 
chores of the farm. Litllr did In- dii-aiii in 
the years to come his own name would appear in 
the great work whose name made such music in 
his ears. 

For in those days no one suspected that Fame 
meant to take this lad In- the hand and lead him 
to one of the world's high seats. Indeed, his 
father sometimes worried about what the future 
might hold for his odd bo\-. "Why does he want 




hooks and things his iirotliers don't want?" the 
father would ask. 

And little John's mother, loving her boy, want- 
ing him to have all his eager mind craved, yet not 
herself imderstanding him, would reply, "Father, 
you must remember he is different from the 

He kept on being different. When he was 
seventeen, he found himself in New York City 

for a day. Long had he 

dreamed of seeing the 
sights of the great cit>-. 
But he saw not one! For, 
as he started up Wil- 
liam Street, little second- 
hand book-stallsalong t he 
curb beckoned to him. 
From one to another 
slowly he made his wa\-, 
first into one book, then 
into another. At last 
the long shadows of the 
afternoon began to fall. 
Soon the boat to King- 
ston would leave, the boat 
on which his return pas- 
sage was paid. Helookerl 
at the pile of books he 
had selected, and said 
timidly to the vendor. 
"How much for the^- 

The man looked them 
over, then rapped out 
brusquely, "Eight dol- 
lars!" John pulled out 
his purse and counted its 
contents. Not quite nine 
dollars! But he could do without supper and 
breakfast, take the stage as far as his odd cents 
would carrj' him, and walk the rest of the way 
home. He just had to have the precious books — 
Saint Pierre's "Studies of Nature," Locke's "Es- 
say on the Human llnderstanding," Dr. John- 
son's works, and a few others. 

So this odd boy trudged over the mountains 
from Kingston to his home with nothing in his 
purse, nothing in his stomach, but with a light 
heart, and a heavy pack of books upon his back. 

On through life he went, making friends with 
the birds, with all manner of insects, with the wild 
animals, and with the tame ones that a farm home 
gathers about it. The great outdoor world gave 
him other friends as well — the flowers and the 
trees. Never did he feel alone in the world. 
Home, companionship was his anywhere under 
the open sky, any place where "the winds of 
God" blew free. But for his famiK'. lie built a 

stone house by the "lordl>- Hudson." And about 
this home, Riverby, he planted broad acres of 
fruit-trees; he set out whole hillsides with grape- 
vines. What other men call drudgery, this odd 
man named joy. In his diar>' he wrote e.xult- 
ingly: "My whole being has had an earth bath. 
I have soaked up sunshine until I glow over all." 
But never was he content to keep this happi- 
ness to himself alone. All that he felt, all that he 

Photogruph by rrizniu 


knew, lie had to share. He wanted every one, 
e\"er>'where, to be able to sift out what is worth 
while, that which endures, from the trivial doings 
of life, the "temporal things." To the boys and 
girls he said: "The most precious things in life 
are near at hand, without money and without 
price. Each of you has the whole wealth of the 
uni\-erse at your very doors. All that I ever had 
and still have, may be >-ours bN' stretching forth 
your hand and taking it." 

In many books for )-oung people he set down the 
lore he had gathered. He put into them, too, all 
the pictures he had stored up as a boy, as well as 
the later ones he had collected. He wrote for 
their fathers and mothers, also — books that 
brought the outdoor world to li\-es hedged in by 
the brick walls of a city; books that set forth, so 
that all might understand, the meaning of life 
and its relation to the whole of the universe. All 
over the world, men knew and lo\'ed John o' Birds. 




And he could not number the friends whose 
hands touched his. They were found in every 
walk of life. The children about his home brought 
flowers for his every birthday; the farmers, far 
and near, greeted his passing with the hail of 
comradeship; Theodore Roose\-elt called him 
"Oom John," and, when he was President of the 
Lhiited States, ran awa>- from the cares of state to 
sijend a day with him in his woodland retreat; an 

expedition of scientists, exploring Alaska, took 
him with them, as their honored guest. The door 
of Wxerby swung open to the great from many 
lands. For the "odd" boy, to manhood grown, found 
many of his own kind, many who shared his zest in 
li\ ing and in seeking the meaning of the uni\erse. 
Nearly eighty-four beautiful years he knew 
here. Then, asking, "How near home are we?" 
John Burroughs entered the Eternal Home. 

First comes Mr. ("i. Squirrel, as some children I 
know have named the northern gray squirrel. 
Next to him in size is Chickaree, his red, fierce 
cousin, who can always best him in a fight. Third, 
is Chippy Nipmunk, the chipmunk whose home 
is in the ground and who w-ears his pockets in his 
cheeks. Last of all is Flyer, a little gray chap with 
a long, silky tail, who sleeps all day rolled up in a 
round ball and ojiens his enormous e>es only after 
dark. By stretching out the loose skin along his 
sides, he can turn himself into a parachute and 
glide long distances through the air. 

The gray squirrel used to be called the migra- 
tory squirrel by the early zoologists. This was 
because, a century or so ago, gray squirrels would 
migrate, always eastward, in troops, stripping 
fields of wheat and corn like a cloud of locusts. 
They were such a pest that in PennsyKania, in 
1750, a bounty of lhree])ence a head was fixed 
and paid on more than eight thousand squirrels 
killed in that year. These squirrel-armies, accord- 
ing to the old writers, climbed the mountains and 
crossed broad ri\crs on Hat pieces of bark, hoisting 

bushy tails for sails and floating across with- 
(lut even wetting their feet! 

To-day, howe\"er, the\' have given up an>- such 
habits and li\e in scattered pairs, not only in the 
country, but in many of our large cities. Last 
autumn I was riding on a surface-car past Central 
Park, in New York Cit>'. Suddenly the car came 
to a stop in the middle of a block, and remained 
there several minutes. Just in front, on one of the 
rails, was Mr. G. Squirrel, carefully hiding a val- 
uable nut. He paid no attention to the score of 
|)assengers, the gong, or the shouts of the motor- 
man. Not until that nut was properly adjusted 
did he get off the rail, fluff up his big silven,-gray 
tail, and scamper away. 

In their wild state, gray sciuirrels are not usually 
so indifTerent. Once, howe\"er, I met one traveling 
down the middle of a deserted country- road. I 
stood perfectly still, and he hopped unconcernedly 
right between my feet and passed on. V'cry few 
of the wild animals can distinguish a man from 
a tree by their eyes alone if he stands still. 

Mr. G. Squirrel is a great carpenter. Often 
in the woods >'ou will notice large nests made 
of sticks, which j'ou may have supposed were 
deserted crows' nests. If, howe\'er, they are 
thatched or chinked with dr>' lea\es, the>' are the 
nests of the gray squirrel, as a crow does not build 
that way. In building, the squirrel first breaks olT 
dry and then green branches from his house-tree, 
and usually lines his nest with luoss, wood fibers, 
and dried grass. In winter time he usualK' lives 
with his famih' in a warmly lined hole in a tree. 

I well remember the time when I first learned 
the difference between a crow's and a squirrel's 
nest. It was on .August 3, 1893. I was wandering 




in the woods and climbed U]) to what I thought 
was an abandoned crow's nest to see how it looked 
inside. Just as I reached the nest, there was a 
rush, a scramble, and out came a gray squirrel — 
which looked to my startled eyes as big as a cat — 
and scurried down the tree. Inside the nest was a 
late second litter of four squirrels, so young that 
their eyes were not yet opened. They were pink 
and gray, like young rats except for their thick 
tails and long whiskers. \\'hen I touched them 
they squealed shrilly. Instantly there was a 
clattering of claws on the opposite side of the tree, 
and up dashed the mother squirrel to rescue her 
babies. She came \\'ithin two feet of me, and it 
was not until I put them back in their nest that 
she went down again. Two weeks later the>' had 
all grown large enough to go off to safer quarters. 

Sometimes, especially in the deep woods, black 
squirrels are found. They used to be considered 
a separate species, but now it is believed that a 
black squirrel is only Mr. G. Squirrel in another 
suit of clothes, and that this is a case of color 
variation, like the black rattlesnake, or the black 
form of the yellow swallowtail butterfly. 

When winter- time comes, the gray squirrel doe> 
not hibernate, like the chipmunk, nor hoard up 
stores of nuts, like the thrifty red squirrel. He 
tucks away single nuts here and there between the 
branches of trees, or buries them one by one in the 
groimd. Unlike the red squirrel, the gray squirrel 
does not destroy, to any large extent, the eggs or 
kill the young of nesting birds, and he should be 
protected and encouraged e\"er\\vhere. I cannot, 
however, recommend Mr. G. Squirrel as a pet 
except w'hen young. As he gets older, his temper 
becomes most uncertain, as sundry scars which I 
still carry bear wtness. 

Chickaree — that 's his name and his call. You 
ha\e probably seen and heard him often, in the 
woods, both summer and winter, chattering out 
his long, rattling " Chickaree-ee-ee-ee," and beating 
time with his flaming, bushy tail. He 's the red 
squirrel, the most effecti\e, the most interesting, 
and the worst-tempered of all the squirrels. A 
bunch of nerve and muscle, Chickaree is afraid of 
only one animal. When the long, lithe, red-eyed 
weasel gets on his trail, poor Chickaree, like many 
another animal, loses his head completely, and, in 
spite of his many sky-paths, is often caught. 

Sometimes he is taken for his cousin, the 
chipmunk. Chi[)py, however, is a groimd squirrel, 
with stripes down his back. He is smaller and 
gentler, and his tail is a slender and humble affair 
coniijared with that of Chickaree. Chippy, too, 
goes into winter quarters early, soon after the fat 
woodchuck, while Chickaree stays out the year 
around. Four or five feet underground, curled up 
beside a larder full of seeds, in case he wishes to 

have an occasional lunch. Chippy sleeps, for the 
most part, until spring, rolled up in a round ball. 
He is the one who has the great pouches in his 
cheeks. Sometimes he looks as if he had the 
mumps. Really it is only acorns. 

Chickaree is fond of deserted houses and camps. 
One winter, in the kitchen of my winter camp, I 
found a red squirrel lying dead on the floor. For a 
long time I could not discover what had killed 
him. Finally, however, I found that in one of his 

riictnTuiih liy llii.vir.l iii> "f Mi.Ml.ti.n 


springs, from a shelf he had knocked off a heavy 
glass jar, which had fallen directly on him. One 
of his favorite games is follow-the-leader. On a 
gra>', winter day in the woods, I once watched two 
red squirrels playing at that game. They covered 
a circle, perhaps fifty yards in diameter, through 
the tree-tops, and the course included a number of 
dizzy jumps. The second squirrel followed his 
leader easily until the last jump of all. Scamper- 
ing through the branches of a great chestnut-tree 
some sixty feet high, the leader ran out and out 
until he was at the very tip of a long limb, and the 
twigs swayed and bent under his weight. He 
ne\'er stopped, however, but sprang through the 
air full\' six feet toward the top tw-igs of a huge 
oak which grew near. 

It was a tremendous jump, and if you don't be- 
lieve it, you tr\' to jump ten times your length 
with a bending branch for a take-off. However, 
he just made it, and, hooking both of his little 
bent fore paws on a stout oak twig, swung back 




and forth like a pendulum. Then he caught a 
foothold with one of his hind paws and, balancing 
himself with his tail, crept along the twig and in a 
minute was running down through the tree as 
rapidly as ever. 

His playmate, however, when he came to the 
jump, hesitated an instant before taking it. The 
little pause was disastrous. It needed every ounce 
of spring to cover the distance, and instead of 
catching both his fore paws, as the first squirrel 
had done, he onl>' managed by a desperate stretch 
of his left paw to catch the very end of the twig, 
and swung for a moment in mid-air. He tried 
desperately to get a grip with the other paw, but 
the twig bent so that he could get no purchase, 
and in a second he slid off and turned a complete 
somersault half a hundred feet from the ground! 

Down through the air he fell like a red streak, 
spreading out his bushy tail for a parachute. 
Even so, however, it was only the soft snow which 
saved him, for he struck with a tremendous bump 
and lay, for a minute, stunned. I ran over to him, 
but just as I stooped to pick him up, with a twist 
and a spring, he was on a neighboring tree-trunk 
and climbed slowlv and stifflv to meet his friend. 

AN EN I !■ HI'Kl 

i;i;n sot irrki. 

Unlike his big cousin, the gray squirrel, chick- 
aree is a prudent little chap and stores up every 
year a bushel or more of nuts in a hollow tree- 
trunk or under a rock. Once, upon going into a 
cottage which was usually closed during the 
winter, I found that an enterprising red scjuirrel 
had used a pair of rubber boots in the garret for a 
storehouse, and had filled them linlh full di the 
ver>- top with butternuts. 

Chickaree is the best nut-cracker and kernel- 
extracter on the market, and he can't be patented 

either. He will take a big black walnut and drill 
an irregular hole through the steel-hard shell and 
follow the rich golden kernel all the way around, 
with never a useless tooth-mark. When he is 
through, the chiseled shell is clean and empty of 
even a fragment of nut-meat. -Against these flint- 
like shells, his front gnawing-teeth wear down 
rapidly. To allow for this, the>- reach two inches 
into the jaw and grow forward constantly. 

I once puzzled some friends b>- showing them a 
strange skull with two long, curved tusks, which 
looked like the head of a tiny mammoth. It was 
only the skull of a red squirrel uith the loose 
gnawing-teeth drawn out their full length. Some- 
times, by an accident, one of the teeth is bent or 
broken, so that the squirrel cannot gnaw with it. 
The tooth keeps on growing just the same, and 
sometimes causes his death, either by locking the 
jaws or by piercing the neck. 

The red squirrel is a great epicure and knows 
all the good things to eat in the woods. One 
March day, when it had been spring all the morn- 
ing, and winter again in the afternoon, I was com- 
ing home in the frosty twilight. Right ahead of 
me I saw a red squirrel run along a branch, break 
off an icicle that hung from a broken place, and, 
sitting up, gnaw it like a nut. As I came o\er to 
inxestigate. Chickaree started to run up to a 
higher perch and the icicle slipped out of his paws. 
I picked it up, while he called out, "Thief! 
Robber!" from the top bough. The icicle looked 
like an ordinary one; but when I bit off a piece, it 
was as sweet as sugar. The treewasasugar-maple, 
and the sweet sap had run out from the broken 
liranch and had frozen into a piece of tree-candy. 

It was Chickaree, too, that taught me how de- 
licious the spicy, sweet saji of the black birch is, 
when I found him lying at full length drinking out 
of a little sap-cup that he had gnawed in the bark 
one warm day in February. He knows well, too, 
which mushrooms are good to eat. I once saw 
him nibbling a red russula, which I thought was 
the red-pepper mushroom, which is too fiery for 
human taste. Afterward I learned that one shade 
of the red russula (alutafca) is sweet and good. 
Chickaree had learned that secret long ago! 

Sometimes his apjjetite leads him astray. .\ 
little niece of mine, who has a good reputation for 
veracity, told me that once up in the White Moun- 
tains she saw a red squirrel eating a little green 
grass-snake that he had caught. He got down 
about half of the snake and then suddenly 
stop]-)ed, dropped the rest, and sat for a few min- 
utes in pained meditation, like a naughty boy 
who had just smoked his first cigar. Then, all of a 
sudden, he l)ecaine acti\ely ill. and afterward ran 
slowly ofT, probably con\inced that snakes were 
too rich for him. 



For two >t;ars a pair of red squirrels lived on 
my place. The>' would often come whirling 
through the white-oak tree that grew by my 
porch and go dashing on through the other trees, 
but I could ne%er seem to discover their home. 
Along the roadway was a double row of Norway 
maples, |_ilanted some thirty feet apart. The root 
of one of them had grown completely aroimd the 
trunk, girdling it and cutting off the flow of the 
sap until the tree died. 

One day it was taken down, and the day after I 
saw Chickaree just leaving the oak-tree and 
springing into the maple row. When he saw me, 
he started off at full speed. Now a squirrel may 
look as though he were running at random through 
the trees; but anywhere on his route, he always 
follows a regular path along the same branches. I 
ran down the road after Chickaree, hoping that I 
could find where he lived. 

He dashed along Uke a red streak, going about 
as fast through the trees as I could run along the 
road. When he came to the gap, he ran out on a 
spreading branch which used to reach close to the 
departed tree. He was evidently running auto- 
maticalK' along his path, and had not passed over 
it since the tree was cut down. At any rate, he 
leaped out into the air without a moment's hesita- 
tion, although there was a space of at least twenty 
feet between him and the next tree. 

He was the most surprised squirrel you ever 
saw when he found no tree waiting for him. 
Down he tumbled through the air and struck the 
roadway with a bump. Though badly shaken, he 
wriggled into a near-by drain, down which he 
disappeared like his cousin, the chipmunk. A 
few weeks later, I found him again near the house, 
this time on the other row of trees, and once again 
I ran after him. From tree to tree he flashed 
along, springing as lightly as if he had never known 
what a tumble was. 

I followed him for a coupleof hundred v-ards, un- 
til the road made a bend and passed an ice-house. 
When it was built, some enterprising architect 
added a little cupola with open, fixed .shutters for 
ventilation. F"or years this had been boarded up, 
as the overseer decided that cupolas caused the 
ice to melt more rapidly than it would in un- 
adorned ice-houses. 





As I panted after Chickaree, he sprang lightly 
from the top of one of the trees, down the slope of 
the roof of the house, scurried along the ridge-pole, 
and, right in front of my eyes, flashed in between 
the shutter-bars and was safe at home. It was 
really an ideal place for a squirrel family. Through 
the shutters he could look out on all four sides, 
and yet have a large warm room in which to li\e 
and store his-nuts for the winter. 

It took me a long time to learn Chickaree's 


guiltiest secret. When I lived nearer the wild- 
folk than I do now, close by my sleeping-porch 
grew a great white-oak tree. The spot where it 
stands used to be the end of a bare hilltop, and the 
tree had grown, accordingly, more in girth than in 
height. In deep woods a tree spends all of its 
strength in growing straight up after light and 
air, and throws off^ no branches until its top is 
safe from the smother of the underbrush and the 
near-by trees. IMy oak had always been exposed 
to the hilltop winds and had grown low and thick, 
with wide spreading branches that came within 
five feet of the ground and covered a circle of per- 
haps one hundred and fifty feet. The ridge on 
which it stood ran north and south, and this was 
the last large tree before the land sloped down to 
the valley below. This made the tree a stopping- 
place for all the migrant birds as the>' passed 
north and south. Nearly e\er)' traveler stopped 

there for breakfast and a little rest. It was there 
that I once heard, on Januar>' 27, a purple grackle 
creaking away on one of the bare top limbs and 
pretending if was spring. It was there that I 
heard my first black-and-white warbler of the 
year, my first black-throated green, the drowsy 
"Zee, zee, zee" of the black-throated blue warbler, 
with the square white patches on his wings, and 
the buzzing note of the little parula, with his white 
wing-bars and the copper mark on his breast. 
One morning the rose-breasted grosbeak woke me 
1 1\- warbling from the top of the tree, caroling his 
way north, and showing on each side of his breast 
tlie beautiful rose-stain which has given him his 

That spring I saw a pair of unwarx' robins liuild- 
ing a nest between a dead limb and the tree-trunk 
just o\er the roadway. I wish I could ha\e 
warned them that the old tree was haunted. Year 
after year I had seen birds build there. Once it 
was the little horse-hair nest with the beautiful 
blue-speckled eggs of the chipping-sparrow. An- 
other season it was the little swinging basket of 
the red-eyed \ireo. Again, a pair of wood- 
thrushes made their nest of lea\es and mud on a 
long, overhanging limb and there guarded four 
sky-blue eggs. The histor>' of them all was the 
same: the nest would be finished and the eggs 
laid ; then one day there would be sorrowful calls, 
and the motirning of a mother-bird for the eggs 
which lay shattered and broken in and out of the 
nest ; and the next day both birds would be gone, 
never to return. 

For a long time I could not discover what 
enemy had been there. Cats, those night-and- 
da>' killers, would not have harmed tJie eggs. 
Black-snakes w'ould ha^•e carried them off, not 
broken them. Blue-ja\s and crows, those sk>-- 
pirates, might have been the guilty ones; but 
I doubted whether a crow would come so close to 
the house, and a blue-jay could not have resisted 
giving his call. Finally, one May morning, I 
happened to be up at dawn in order to take a bird- 
walk before breakfast and see the last of the mi- 
grants as they went through. Just as I was about 
to lea\e the shadow of the porch I heard a tiny 
scratching on one side of the oak; and even as I 
looked, I saw a rod squirrel scamper silently up 
the tree. The father-robin was in a near-by 
maple singing the da\v-n-song, which is the duty of 
e\er\' father-robin to sing just before sunrise. 
The mother-bird had left the eggs for a few min- 
utes and was hopjiing across the lawn with an eye 
open for early worms. Before I could move, the 
red squirrel was up to the nest. The father-robin 
saw him at the same instant that I did and started 
for him with a shriek that brought the mother- 
robin up to the nest with one spring. It was too 




late. The little red thief had pierred and sucked 
out the contents of each long blue egg before the 
robins reached him, and then, dodging their 
beaks, whirled down the tree and scampered off 
across the lawn. At breakfast-time the two birds 
were still sitting mournfully beside the empty- 
nest. By noon they were gone, never to come 
back to that haunted tree. 

We alwa\'s think of the fi>'ing-squirrels as rare. 
That is only because our working times and theirs 
do not correspond. The flying-sijuirrel is found 
e\'er>'where in much greater numbers than either 
of the other two. It was a fire which first made me 
realize this fact. When I was young, all the boys 
of our town felt that it was their imperative duty 
to attend every fire which broke out, night or day. 
I do not remember that we saved many lives or 
much property, but we were always there and 
made a loud noise. All the more important fires 
had names by which they were discussed by fiie- 
goers. There was the "Woolen-mill Fire," the 
"Seven-chimney-house Fire," and the "Tooth- 
brush Fire," when one of us rushed bravely 
through flames and smoke and rescued an old 
tooth-brush, the only portable property left in 
the room which he entered. One which we always 
remembered was the "Flying-squirrel Fire," be- 
cause that night, as a large house burned, sud- 
denly all the surrounding trees became alive with 
darting flying-squirrels, attracted like moths by 
the dazzling light. 

Quite recently, on the top of Mount Pocono, 
while looking for the nest of the little golden- 
crowned kinglet, I found the home of a highly 
educated flying-squirrel. This talented squirrel 
had lined his nest with pieces of a foreign news- 
paper dated 1915, but written in a language which 

none of ouV party could fevenname, much less 
read. V^* ~ 

.\ friend of rhm^nce found four young flying- 
squirrels in a flickSt's riestf , He put them into a 
boxful of cotton and fed them warm milk with a 
medicine-dropijer. The second night he heard a 
curious noise in the room w here they were. Turn- 
ing on the light, he found the mother squirrel by 
the box. She had come in through the half-open 
window. He stood perfectly still and watched 
her. She ga\-e a little whimpering noise, and 
immediately from out of the box popped one of 
the baby squirrels. When he saw his mother he 
lay flat down on his back and reached up his little 
paws, and, as she stood o\-er him he clasped them 
around her and immediately my friend saw one 
of his pet squirrels disappearing up the wall, 
toward the open space in the window. He ran out 
to stop them, but as he reached the door he saw 
the mother squirrel, with her baby clasped tightly 
around her, scurr>' up the nearest tree, and, from 
the \'er>' top, skim through the air in a long 
diagonal flight which brought her to the foot of 
the next tree. Before he could reach her, she was 
up that one and flying to another, and in another 
minute was out of sight. 

He went back, thinking that anyAvay he had 
three squirrels left. When he looked into the box, 
howe\er, he found it empty. The mother squirrel 
had already rescued the first three of her family 
before he came, and the one he saw going off with 
her was the last of the brood. Although my friend 
pretended to be angry at het for stealing his 
squirrels, I believe that, really, he was glad she 
got them. It 's a poor game, anyway, to shut up 
a wild, free animal. The best pets are those who 
live in the woods and not in cages. 

PholuRrQifh by Huwnrd Taylor ilt.lillftnn 

".\I1(. (i. SQUIKUKL • 



World's Champion Tcnnis-Player 

tlkolMUt txiiii l»y Edwiu LL-virk 


One hears much tliese days about the "money- 
players." In sporting parlance, this term means 
the man who can produce his best in the crisis. 
In baseball, the player who delivers a hit when 
needed is the money-player; in golf, it is the links- 
man who holes out a twenty-footer in a big match ; 
in football, it is the player who kicks a field-goal 
with but a minute left to play. These men are the 
money-players. The corresponding man in ten- 
nis is a money-player also; but in the slang of that 
sport he is called the "match-player." 

Tennis history is full of great match-players. 
Few, if any, championships are played that do 
not produce an incident that shows a match- 
player. It is this inherent factor of the game that 
has finally aided tennis to gain its rightful hold on 
public fancy and to take its jjlace as the greatest 
sport of (he world. 

I^et me outline the qualities that make a great 
match-player. First, and above all else, he must 
have courage. This quality never allows him to 
admit defeat until the last point has been played. 
Xo matter how great the strain or how desperate 
the situation, the match-player must possess the 
necessan,- courage to carry him through. There 
is no better example than William M. Johnston, 
the famous "Little Bill," my team-mate of the 
Da\'is Cup tour just past. Johnston is courage 
1 ersonified. As one of his admirers said to me, 
"You can't beat a man like that, for he won't be 
beaten." Of course, this is not and could not be 
tlie case. But many have been the times when I 
have seen Bill's courage carry him out of holes 
I hat I thought were hopeless. 

To cite a case, let me tell you of our match in 
the National Championships last year, when we 
were struggling against each other in the finals. 
I had a commanding lead of two sets to one, 5-3 
in games, and 30-15 in points. We were rallying 
a bitter point at the net, and were about ten feet 
apart, when Bill lobbed a short one over my head. 
I smashed at him with all my force — a terrific 
effort. With perfect calmness, Bill, unafraid, 
stepped into the ball and made an astonishing 
liick-up. Sheer surprise caused me to miss. 
Nothing but courage of the highest order would 
have allowed a man to have dojie other than turn 
his back on my shot; while nothing but qualities 
of the highest order would ha\"e availed him, e\en 
had he the courage to try for such a shot. John- 
ston possessed all of this, and as a result won that 
point and the set. It was onh" superior condition, 
and through no faltering of Bill's, that I finally 
won the fifth set and the championship. 

The second qualit>' demanded of a match- 
[ilayer is coolness under strain. This is the cjual- 
ity that allows the player to make his shots un- 
ruffled and unhurried. No matter what the score 
may be against a plav'er, if he is still master of 
himself, he has a chance. Coolness is a certain 
guard against that great enenn' of good play — 
temper. It permits of quick thinking and com- 
lilete grasping of the situation. 

On our recent I)a%is Cup tour to New Zealand, 
the American team, as well as the Australian, 
played in the New Zealand Championships. Wat- 
son M. Washburn and I met in the final round of 
the New Zealand Singles Championship. I was 
traveling at top form in the early .stages of the 
match, while Washburn, although playing well. 




was not at his best. I quickly ran away with two 
sets, 6-0, 6-1, and led in the third at 4-all and 
30-40 on Washburn's service. Washburn hit a 
drive that fell outside the base-line by two inches, 
but which the linesman called good. I was 
anxious to complete the match, as the doubles 
final, against Brookes and Patterson, was still 
to be played. Thus I was so upset at this deci- 
sion that it cost me the game. I began to hurry- 
in consequence, whereas "Watty," as he is called, 
remained cool and unperturbed, as is his custom. 
I carelessly threw away a couple of points, and 
Washburn, quick to seize his opportunity, pressed 
home his ad\antage and won that set. Before I 
could stop him, he had taken the next at 6-4. 
It was only by virtue of most vigorous eflort on 
my part that I took the final set at 6-3. Now 
this is a perfect example of one player forgetting 
his need to remain cool and of another taking full 
advantage of a situation by doing so. 

The third point in the make-up of a match- 
player is resource. Resource is ingenuity. It is 
cleverness. It is the seizing of the opportunity as 
it opens. It is coolness plus. Resource is what 
Washburn showed in the incident I have just de- 
scribed. And it is often the deciding factor at 
the end of a long, hard match. 

The most resourceful man that tennis has ever 
known is Norman E. Brookes, the famous Aus- 
tralian player. He is always doing the unex- 
|)ected. Whenever Brookes seems hopelessh' 
beaten, at that moment he is most dangerous. 
It is Brookes's resourcefulness that makes him to- 
diiy one of the most dangerous players in the 
world. Resource may come from experience. 
Courage can only be a personal matter. 

Resourceful as is Norman E. Brookes, he was 
the victim of a piece of brilliant generalship, the 
equal of which may never again be seen in tennis. 
Some \ears ago, about 1909, if m>' memory serves, 
the American Davis Cup team journeyed to 
Australia to challenge for the Davis Cup. On our 
team was Beals C. Wright, one of the cleverest and 
most resourceful players America has ever known. 
Wright met Brookes in the opening match on 
a day when the temperature ho\ered around 100 
degrees in the shade. It was a killing day, and 
Brookes, never a tremendously strong man, 
realized that a speedy victory was his need. V\'ith 
that in view, he attempted to rush Wright off the 
court. He succeeded only too well in the early 
stages, winning the first two sets by large margins. 
The third set was going the same way, when 
Wright, ever alert to any chance, saw signs of 
weakening in Brookes's attack. Then he began 
a lobbing attack that chased Brookes from the net 
to the base-line repeatedly. As Brookes show'ed 
distress, Wright himself advanced to the net at- 

tack. He pushed home his advantage and took 
the set. Wright won the next one decisixely, and 
ran away to a tremendous lead of 4-1 in the last. 
Brookes was clearly "all in," but, by dint of the 
rare courage that is a part of every great match- 
player, Brookes, literally tottering on his feet, 
pulled himself together and fought back to even 
ground at 4-all. Game after game these two 
masters fought over after that, until Wright, 
through superb physical condition, nosed out 
Brookes after a long deuce set. Both men were 
completely exhausted. It was a mar\elous exam- 

i'botograpb by Edwin Levick 


pie of the courage that carries men through, but 
an even more glowing example of resourcefulness. 

The fourth point in the make-up of a match- 
player in tennis is grit. Grit and courage are dif- 
ferent manifestations of the same thing— a qual- 
ity known as "nerve." Courage carries you 
through discouragement; grit causes you to tri- 
umph over an acute physical handicap. They are 
really the same thing, but I am using these two 
terms to differentiate between mental nerve and 
ph>sical ner\e. 

A match-player nuist be able to stand physical 
pain, and still produce his best game. And he 
must be able to do this thing without explanation 
or excuse. This is not an easy thing to do, as 
tennis is a game that demands comiilete concen- 
tration. Pain or discomfort tends to distract one's 
mind from the play. It is all too likely to cause 
one to think of himself. 




I remember a noted match in which I saw R. L. 
Murray, one of the grittiest players in the game, 
play himself off the court in a struggle against 
Watson M. Washburn, during an East-versus- 
West affair. Murra>' opened \'er\- well, but grad- 
ually sunk from brilliant tennis to absolute medi- 
ocrity. Then finally, in the fifth set, he literally 
collapsed. Yet so keen was he to finish, that it was 
only when the captain of his team forced him off 

I'hotugruph by Edvt 


the court that Murray would default. I learned 
afterward that Murray had been ill throughout 
the previous night and was not fit to play. 

R. Norris Williams, 2d, who for years has suf- 
ferred from a weak ankle, the result of an old in- 
jury, fought William M. Johnston to a standstill 
for two sets and a hall in the National Champion- 
ship last year, although suffering agonies from a 
sharp strain caused by a too sudden stop in the 
third game of the first set. Yet so well did Wil- 
liams hide his injury, and so reticent was he about 
it after the match, that only a few of his intimate 
friends knew of the handicap under which he 

Norman I'",. Brookes, throughout the whole of 
his wonderful career on the tennis-courts, was the 
victim of a chronic ailment that at times caused 
him extreme suffering. Brookes would often l)lay 
his greatest matches while undergoing the most 
intense pain. Fortunately, Brookes has con- 

quered his illness and to-day is nearly a well man. 
Yet oxer that long period when he led the world 
in tennis, no one ever heard Brookes offer an 
excuse for defeat, although he certainly had one. 

I have seen men play when they have been 
running high temperatures and should have been 
in bed instead of being on the court. I have seen 
them pla\- with sprained ankles, strained backs, 
and injured hands. Possibly you will remark, 
"They were foolish — it was n't worth it." Quite 
liossibly you are right in this opinion; jet I admire 
the grit that carried them through and the game 
that can produce such a spirit. 

A match-player must have more than these 
four qualities. He must have a fine stroke equip- 
ment, must possess a mental caliber of at least 
a\-erage intelligence, and speed of foot. He must 
train, work, and progress. .\n\- pla>er may ha\e 
all these attributes, but unless he combines with 
ihem the four cjualities of courage, coolness, re- 
source, and grit, he cannot reach the select class. 

We ha\-e boasted of many match-players in 
.America. We are also justly proud of them. Yet 
let us also gi\e credit to se\eral great stars whom, 
though we may not claim them as our own, we are 
justly proud to know. 

There is one man who, although he has never 
worn the crown of world's champion, is known as 
the defeater of champions — J. Cecil Parke, of 
lingland. In my opinion, Parke is one of the 
greatest match-players the world has ever known, 
and to-day he is as dangerous an opponent for 
Any one given match as can be found. Parke has 
ne\-er had the opportunity for regular practice 
and tournament pla>', in the wa>- so many of the 
great players ha\e had. Notwithstanding all 
this, during the years from igo7 to 1914, inclusive, 
Parke defeated Norman E. Brookes, .Anthony F. 
Wilding, Beals C. Wright, Maurice E. McLough- 
liii, and R. Norris \\ illiams, 2d, when they were 
at their best. It is a marvelous record; yet I 
think that, last year, Parke capped e\en this. 

Parke was a major in the World War, ser\ed 
the full four jears, and was twice wounded — 
once, seriousK', through his side, causing what 
was thought to lie permanent heart complica- 
tions, and once with shrapnel through his wrists. 
Naturally, it was felt Parke's tennis days were 
o\er. But last season Parke decided to "come 
back." How well he did this is understood when 
I tell you he defeated William M. Johnston, in 
the World's Championship at Wimbledon, Eng- 
land, in four sets, and carried this same "Little 
Bill" to li\e bitter sets in the Davis Cup. Thus 
Parke came back and triumphed tner his physi- 
cal handicaps, to add the scalp of the .American 
champion to his list of notable achievements. 

I ha\e alreadj' paid tribute to Norman E. 




Brookes. I need sa>' no more of him. Brookes' 
imequaled record stands alone, needing no praise 
from me. Second only to him comes the late 
Anthony F. Wilding, that gallant sportsman who 
laid down his life at ("lalliiioli while serving as a 
captain in the British Arm^-. \\ilding was an- 
other player of great attainments, a man of cour- 
age, coolness, resource, and grit, one who ranks 
high among the players of the world. Among the 

I'llMlntiai.lj m;, 1 


other great match-]5layers of Great Britain are 
A. W. Gore, H. L. and R. F. Doherty— those 
famous brothers who for years outclassed the 
world in tennis — S. \V. Smith, and the Renshaws. 

America need never fear to place her record in 
tennis before the world. Down through the 
pages of histor>' in this sport the names of Slocum, 
Sears, Earned, Ward, Dax'is, the Wrenns, Wright, 
and Clothier will ever stand forth. To R. N. 
Williams, 2d, William M. Johnston, R. L. Mur- 
ray, and other modern players I render praise. 

There remains one man who, I feel, must take 
his rightful place at the head of American match- 
players. He was not a great tennis-player from a 
technical standpoint. His game was faulty, his 
foot-work bad, his back-hand very weak. Yet by 
sheer speed, by courage, coolness, resource, and 
grit, Maurice Evans McLoughlin gained a posi- 
tion as unquestioned champion of the world in 

IQ14. McLoughlin is the most perfect type of the 
match-player. He could always bring his game 
to its best in the crisis. Its weaknesses were less 
apparent, its strength intensified whenever the 
need was greatest. No one who was present at 
the mar\elous Davis Cup tie in New York in 
1914, when McLoughlin defeated both Brookes 
and Wilding, will ever forget the impossible, 
miraculous tennis played by "Mac." It was un- 
heard of, unbelievable, yet it was done just when 
needed. Sheer audacity of attack and disobedi- 
ence to the usual laws of tennis technique tri- 
umphed for him, because the great will of this 
match-player said, "I will win." Time and again 
during that terrific match with Brookes, in which 
"The Wizard" held the whip-hand during the 
early stages, he was held at bay solely by the 
fierce determination and sheer genius of tactics 
of the young American, tactics that were inspired, 
but not thought out. Brookes clearly outgen- 
eraled him, yet Mac would flash forth in the 
pinch. With the score lO-i i and 0-40 McLough- 
lin deuced the scored by three magnificent serv- 
ice aces that Brookes did not even try to reach. 

Later, against Wilding on the last day, Mc- 
Loughlin won the first set by hitting four services 
of Wilding's for clean-earned points, and with such 
speed to the ball that Wilding could not reach 
one of them. In neither case was it orthodox ten- 
nis. But it was an outpouring of that wonderful 
something that makes a match-player. 

Those matches mark the crest of McLoughlin's 
career. Never afterward was he the same pla},-er. 
Brookes knew it, and prophesied Williams would 
beat McLoughlin in the American Champion- 
ship, which he did. 

I have attempted to give an outline that will 
help to explain the match-player. Yet there is a 
something else, a something more. And it is a 
motive force bigger than anything I have so far 
mentioned. This is a God-given quality that 
cannot be acquired. It is part and parcel of that 
wonderful thing we call personalit>'. 

Somewhere within the human body is a dynamo 
that generates energy and difl'uses it throughout 
the system. In some cases, all too few I regret to 
say, this energy has a magnetic power so strong 
that it grips not only the possessor himself, but 
those with whom he comes into contact. This is 
the energy which produces the match-player. 

"Ty" Cobb and "Babe" Ruth have it. Bobby 
Jones, "Chick" Evans, and Francis Ouimet show 
it. Norman E. Brookes, R. Norris Williams, 2d, 
and Vincent Richards exude it. Theodore 
Roosevelt had it in the extreme. And it is this 
same personality that makes the match-player. 

What is the match-player? Frankly, I do not 
know, for I do not know what is personality. 

1 ■ 









^^r ^^1 






T^U i*"i f]-^. 





BouNDF.D on one side by the end of cixilization, 
and with its opposite limits crowding close upon 
the edge of a \ast prime^■aI wilderness, there lies, 
in one of the great pro\inces of Canada, a thriving 
little city of several thousand inhabitants. To 
the south, there is water and much na\"igation. 
To the north, there is nothing but tall trees and 
tiny lakes, fearless trappers and boundless forests. 
But business has pushed its way into this far 
northland — just as business, in some form or 
another, always penetrates to the very ends of 
the earth. To understand, one has merely to be 
familiar with the old organization and former 
power of the Hudson's Bay Company. The indus- 
try back of this story, however, was of a far differ- 
ent character. The city of which we ha\e spoken 
is the home of mammoth paper-mills — because the 
required vast quantities of wood-pulp are avail- 
able almost at its doors. Spruce was the principal 
wood needed — and spruce was plentiful. 

Bruce Bigelow- — with dark hair and dark e>'es, 
'broad of shoulder and straight as a ]iine — was the 
twentv"-six-year-old son of the head of the paper 
industry. Bruce had fought during the Great 
War, and with marked distinction, in the fl>'ing- 
corps. W'hen the fighting was o\er, he started, 
under his father, to learn the paper business 
from the ground up; soon after which he made a 
suggestion to the head of the house. 

"There is not to be found anywhere, I'athcr, a 
map of the bush that is worth the pajier it is 
printed on," he said one day. "If you really 
want to locate to a certaint>' the best spruce, why 
not get a good seaplane? The whole territory is 
fairly sprinkled with lakes, — almost e\ery ridge 
hides a new one, — so that a seaplane should ha%'c 
no trouble at all in making a landing." 

If it would be practicable, here was the germ of 
soinething valuable. At first, howe\er, the elder 
Bigelow was skeptical. Would it not be as easy 
to become lost in an aeroplane o\er the woods as 
to become lost in the woods itself? This was only 
one of the seeming obstacles that occurred to 
Robert Bigelow. There were many others. 

"But," argued Bruce, "no man, or set of men, 
have ev er been so skilled in the sense of direction 
as your trained axiator. I do not believe such fears 
will prove well founded. Father; besides, we can 
have the machine equipped with the best kind of 

It w'as an idea worth the experiment, anyhow', 
and in the end Robert Bigelow signed a requisi- 
tion for a small seaplane, the best of its size that 
could be built, and it was understood that Bruce's 
next promotion would be to the position of official 
pilot. It was to be a plane of special design, built 
to order, and it would be some time before its 
manufacturers would be able to make deliver^'. 
This was siitisfacton,-, as it was an innovation 
and hence there was no definite, immediate need 
for it. 

Before the new plane arri\ed, a canoe explora- 
tion for new spruce had already been organized, 
and it was decided that Bruce should make one of 
the party. A single-track railroad ran from the 
cit\' straight into the north, through the very 
heart of the wilderness, as far as Hudson Bay. 
The jiarty, with their canoes and a full outfit of 
pro\isions, left b\' rail, and were to Ix" dimiped 
off two hundred miles in the bush on the shores of 
the lake that would make the first lap of their 
long homeward paddle. Through many such lakes, 
over portages, down winding ri\ers lay tlieir way, 
penetrating the imcharted forest. 



Bnire had been in the bush before, and it was 
alvva>s a tonic to his system. He had always 
loved the wild — and it seemed especially exhila- 
rating on this particular trip after the period of 
confinement at the mill. Who can ever tire of 
the magic spell of the wilderness! It was in .Au- 
gust and the days were warm, but not too warm. 
The nights were crisply cool. There were six be- 
sides Bruce in the party — two guides and four 
company men. All were in their blankets early 
at night and up earl>- each morning — refreshed 
by the deep, dead sleep such as one can best know 
only on balsam boughs in the northern wilderness. 
The low-hanging mist would still be clouding the 
lakes by the time the canoes were pushed out into 
their silvery waters for the beginning of a new 
day's work. Bruce always took his morning's dip 
in the cool, clear water, to the unfailing wonder 
of the guides. They thought nothing of snow- 
shoeing o\'er their trap-lines in the dead of winter, 
when the mercury dropped to fifty degrees below 
zero, but as for plunging into the keenly cool 
August water — that was unthinkable! 

Glorious da>'s followed one another in close 
succession as the three trim canoes nosed their 
wa>' farther and farther into \ast forest. The sixth 
day was drawing to an end when, not far off, 
Bruce heard the wings of a partridge flapj^ing in 
flight. He knew it would not go far, and he sud- 
denly decided there was nothing he would rather 
have for his breakfast in the morning than fried 
partridge. The others were all busy getting sup- 
\>er and making camp for the night when Bruce 
liicked up his rifle and slip|jed off without an- 
nouncing his intention to the rest of the party. 
They first noticed his absence a little later, when 
a shot broke the silence of the forest. 

"Who 's that, I wonder?" spoke up Sam Sar- 
gent, the older guide. 

"So I was wondering, too," said his partner. 
"Must be Bruce. He 's not about. I reckon he 's 
just trying his luck." These men of the wild 
places, who had known Bruce all his life, ne\'er 
even thought of him or spoke to him except by 
his first name. 

"Do >ou suppose he 's lost and shooting to call 
for help.''" asked George Parker, with just a trace 
of uneasiness. 

"Sure not," Sam hastened to assure him. 
"That boy 's been in the woods all his life — he 'II 
take care of himself. Besides," he added with 
conviction, "he 'd have fired three times if he was 
calling for help. No — he '11 most likely bring in 
something to add to our grub." And that closed 
the incident. 

Bruce was not in trouble, either. He had, how- 
ever, very neatly shot a big fat partridge. But he 
did not at once start to retrace his steps. Several 

other birds had flown at the shot, and Bruce fol- 
lowed them up to get enough for the whole party. 
Yet they were hard to locate. Most of them had 
taken to the trees, where it is always very difficult 
to find them unless you know exactly where to 
look. By and by he happened to stumble on one 
that had kept to the ground. With a rush of 
wings, it was off — and took to a tree some distance 
ahead. Bruce followed to get in position for a 
shot. In the end he bagged the bird. He now 
had two, and felt that if he could get a couple 
more, he would have enough to share them with 
all the party next morning. So he kept on, intent 
upon this object. He did not realize how late it 
was getting until about twenty minutes after, 
when he again came upon some birds. Taking a 
good tree-rest for the rifle, he drew bead on one 
overhead — and down it flopped. But it was very 
hard to find. Looking up through the trees at 
the sky, in shooting, he had found his sights easy 
enough. But on the darker ground, in the thick 
of the brush, it proved to be no small task to lo- 
cate the partridge that in color so nearly matched 
its surroundings. When at last he found the bird, 
Bruce realized that it was high time to be getting 
back to camp. And with three birds — the proof 
of three good rifle-shots — that is what he pro- 
ceeded to do. 

But Bruce had conunitted the fatal error of 
the bush: he had been so absorbed in following 
the birds that he had forgotten to keep his sense of 
direction. After traveling some little distance, he 
knew that he had lost his bearings. But he was 
dogged in his determination not to admit it by 
firing the three-shot signal for help — at least not 
yet. Vainly he strove to determine the direction 
of the camp. It was rapidly growing darker; 
night was approaching more sw iftly with each lost 
minute — silently spreading itself like an envelop- 
ing blanket over the solitudes of the wild. And 
so at last — but not until the very last — did the 
war hero of the air fire the three telltale shots in 

Back in camj), old Sam had just expressed in the 
one breath both his worry and impatience over 
Bruce's failure to return, when the signal shots 
were heard. 

"By gracious!" he exclaimed, now* thoroughly 
alarmed, "that boy is lost; and what 's more, he 's 
gone too far! Those shots are not as close as I 
was sure he would be. He should have known 
better," he added in vexation. Then he quickly 
grabbed up a gun and shot three times into the 
darkening sky. 

"What can we do?" exclaimed Parker, his voice 
qili\-ering with the nen.-ousness that he could not 

"Nothing more — now," said Sam, trying to 




conceal his own uneasiness. "Wait till we hear 
from him again and see if he 's coming toward us." 
Out in the bush, Bruce heard the shots from 
the camp — ^and it shook even his steady nerve 
that they sounded so much farther away than he 
had dreamed could be possible. "Dog-gone it," 
he muttered, between clenched teeth, "but I am 
in a pretty h\." He ijroceeded toward the direc- 

worse tangle than ever. Not feeling hungr>^ he 
found a windfall and prepared to make himself as 
comfortable as possible for the night. Then it 
was that he noticed he had onK- three matches 
with him. He decided to do without a fire, 
though during the night it grew so cold that he 
was chilled to the bone. 

Back in camp, by the portage, there was no 

Hh UKALI/hl) ttH.\r HAU HAPl'E.NEU— HI-. IIAIJ uul 11. KNEl) ABOL I' 

tion whence the sound of the shots had come. For 
some time he went on without shooting again — 
and felt chagrined that he had had to tire at all. 
But it was getting so dark that he finally de- 
cided to signal again — this time, just to let them 
know he was coming. He fired and at first thought 
that the echoes were his answer. Then he heard, 
unmistakably, the three shots in rejily from the 
camp. But the sound came from farther away 
than it had before — much farther away ! He 
realized then what had happened — in some unex- 
l^lainable wa\', he had got turned about. 

"Confound the echoes!" he said, vexed at his 
blunder. "They 've misled me." In his heart 
there was no fear — only stronger delerniinalion. 

Bruce sat down on a log and analyzed the sit- 
uation. He knew the ways of the woods well 
enough to understand the foolishness of trying to 
get back that night. It might lead him into a 

rest for any one — less e\en than Bruce himself 
enjoyed. They took turns keeping watch, so that 
some one would sureK- be awake and ready to an- 
swer any summoning shots from Bruce. But as 
no more came, in the morning they held a solemn 
council and several plans for making a thorough 
search were discussed. 

It was Sam, the guide, who finalh- issued the 
ultimatum. "Andre will take the rest of you and 
go on," he said. "I stay." 

".•\nd I stay with you — I will not move a step 
out of the woods until Bruce is found!" Parker 
chokingly exclaimed. 

In the end, that is the wa> it was decided. Only 
Sam and Parker remainetl, though none of them 
wanted to push on. That all .should stay was not 
practical, as Sam i)ointed out .so decidedly as to 
ap]5ear unfeeling. Yet all knew this was not so. 
Stolidly the other four in two of the canoes pushed 


THE !\lU;ilTli:ST EAGLE 


off, waving farewell Ici their t\\xi coiiiradcs who 
remained behind. 

"Good hick to you!" Sam caHed back to them; 
"we shall find him — and we shall not come in 
until we do." It was be>'ond the power of Parker 
to speak a word. He was crushed by an intiiiti\e 
dread of what might be before them. 

The first faint streak of dawn found Bruce hun- 
gry as well as chilled to the bone. His fingers were 
so cold that he wasted one match and so used two 
of his three in lighting a fire. Then he picked and 
prepared one of his partridges and roasted it on a 
stick over the coals. He knelt by a spring near by 
and drank deep of the cool water. He felt better 
when he had eaten, e\-en though the lack of salt 
made the meal a poor substitute for his usual fare. 
The moon still hung overhead, as if loath to leave; 
and the forests were wrapped in a heavy mantle 
of mist. In any other circumstances, Bruce would 
have thrilled to the exhilaration of its free and 
wild enchantment. 

In such a wilderness, it is one thing to seek; it is 
another thing to find. Bruce went from bad to 
worse in his wanderings. Though his ammunition 
was running low, twice, at intervals, he fired sig- 
nal shots, but to his dismay there came no answer. 
The party could not have gone on without him — ■ 
that was incredible. But how else explain the 
failure to reply? He could not know that Sam 
and Parker were out of earshot, ha\'ing, with the 
coming of dawn, left camp to begin their search for 
him, first tacking to a tree beside the camp-fire a 
message telling of the direction they had taken 
and that they would return to the camp at stated 
inter\'ais. It sometimes happens that even the 
most experienced woodsman will lose his bearings. 
Nothing seems as it ought to be; the wrong direc- 
tion appears to be the right one. This was the 
predicainent in which Bruce found himself — al- 
though he had retained his self-control to a re- 
markable degree. Indeed, had it not been for 
night again falling, the chances are that he would 
ha\'e found his way back to his companions. 
Bruce was too much of a woodsman — and too 
much of a soldier — to be ner\ous; but darkness, 
combined with a certain impatience, had brought 
about the .same result as if he had been so. 

.\nother meal without salt and he lost all relish 
for partridge; then too, with his matches gone, 
he could not cook them. Without fire or blankets, 
he suffered terribly at night. But there was one 
thing growing abundantly in the few clearer 
spaces at this season — berries. These formed 
Bruce's sole diet after the first morning. There 
were Ijlueberries and raspberries, and he had al- 
ways been fond of both. Had it not been for these, 
he certainly would have perished. But these sus- 

tained life, and he was spared the necessit>' of 
eating raw game. .'Knd so the days dragged on, 
one after another. Each night he cut a new notch 
in a stick he carried, to keep track of the time. 

There were eight notches on the stick w hen one 
dav- Bruce stood on the edge of a high precipice 
that fell sheer to the shores of what seemed the 
most beautiful little lake he had ever seen. The 
setting sun, a ball of red fire, sent its slanting rays 
through the trees of the forest on the opposite 
shore and across the deep blue water like a track 
of glory. Far back rose the timber-covered hills 
— miles upon miles of unbroken forest. There 
was one tall pine that towered so far above the 
others — it w-as as high again as any other tree 
around it — that it seemed to stand as a guardian 
over all that forest world. And in spite of his 
weakness and hunger, Bruce thrilled to the magic 
spell of the wilderness. Here was the world as 
unspoiled as when God gave it as His gift to man. 
And here w-as a man fighting for his life in this 
primitiv'e land — fighting for it just as the moose 
and the bear and the wolf must fight for theirs. 
But with this difference — that generations of 
civilization had softened Bruce. Yet behind 
Bruce w-ere generations of fighting men, — and he 
himself was one, — so he was making a fight that 
wottld have been beyond a lesser courage. A 
weaker spirit would have succumbed, while Bruce 
could still respond to the beaut>' of the menacing 
wilderness. It was fortunate for him that it was 
August and not Deceinber, for then there would 
haxelieen no berries for food and he would soon 
have perished of the cold. 

The day on which Bruce cut the twentieth notch 
on his tally-stick, he was so weak that he could 
barely crawi. His clothing was torn and stained 
and hung loosely on his emaciated body. His 
head ached and he was unspeakably weary. He 
found a windfall, pulled some moss into it, and 
lay dow-n. Almost immediately he fell into the 
deep sleep of utter exhaustion. It was the first 
time he had allowed himself to lie down for rest 
during the day. He had been afraid to do it. 
But now how good the warm sun felt as it found 
its way to the ojien side of the windfall ! 

How long Bruce slept, he could not know. He 
was suddenly startled into wakefulness by the 
near report of a rifle. Slowly and painfully he 
propped himself up; and as he did so, the domi- 
nant feature of his nature, the die-fighting im- 
pulse, reawakened. Almost intuitively, he reached 
for his rifle and fired three shots into the air in 
rajiid succession. The answer was close — unmis- 
takably close. With a mighty eftort of will, 
Bruce pulled himself together. He knew that his 
ears had not deceived him — and he knew also that 
he must not let this chance at deliverance slip by. 



It would be the last. Then, as he fought for mast- 
ery of his deadening senses, there came a great 
cracking of the brash, and a moment later a giant 
of a man made his way through the undergrowth 
and came toward him. 

"Ah!" he said, as he hurried to the windfall 
and placed his great hand on Bruce's shoulder, "I 
see I come just in time." 

"Yes— in — time," Bruce whispered faintly. 
And then the exhaustion that he had fought so 
gallantly got the better of him at last, and he 
collapsed in the big man's arms. 

When he awoke, Bruce was lying on a soft bed 
of balsam boughs. It was light. Vaguely he 
realized that he must have slept a long time, he 
felt so much refreshed. He must cut another 
notch in his tally-stick, he thought hazily. But 
as he felt for it, he was gently pushed back. 

"Better rest some more," said a kindly voice in 
his ear. 

"But where am I and how did I get here?" 
Bruce whispered, without any further desire to 

"You 're all right now, in my cabin," the voice 
answered. "Wait — I have some partridge broth 
ready for you. After you have that, you will feel 
better and we can talk." 

Bruce took as much of the broth as his new 
friend would allow him, and then declared his wish 
to know what had hap]:)ened. 

"It was yesterday afternoon that I found you," 
the man said, "and I carried you down here, 
where you have slept so hard I wondered if you 
would e\er wake up. I wanted to gi\-e >ou some 
food, for I could see you were almost starved." 

"And who are you — whom I ha\e to thank for 
all this?" Bruce asked. 

"Me — I am Mclntyre. My trap-line, in season, 
runs right by the place where you were lying. 
And you," he added, "must be Bigelow. Am I 
not right?" 

"Yes — -but how did you know?" Bruce asked, 

"Sam — -Sam Sargent — was through this way 
with another man about a week ago looking for 
you, and he gave me your name then. I never 
saw Sam act so beat up in his life." 

"Good old Sam !" murmured Bruce. "We must 
(ind him and let him know." 

"But not until >'ou 're stronger — then we '11 see 
what we can do," the trapper answered ^•er>' 
ix)sitively. "You '11 be able to tra\cl in a day or 

"We must start to-morrow', if not to-day," 
said Bruce, and then he fell asleep again. He was 
weaker than he had realized. 

While he slept, Mclntyre, was busy examining 
his guest's rifle. It was the finest specimen he 

had ever seen. He carried it outside, the better to 
study its mechanism. "Bet it would drop a moose 
at the end of the lake!" he said to himself. Over- 
head, a great bird soared in sweeping circles. It 
was an eagle and Mclntyre found himself peeping 
at it through the sights. He was tempted to pull 
the trigger, but he remembered that that would 
awaken Bruce in the cabin. And then there sud- 
denly appeared over the distant pines another 
fl\-ing thing that, though so far away, seemed 
mightier than the eagle. But Mclntyre could tell 
it was no bird such as e\er before had flown o\er 
those forests. The noise of its flight, even at a 
distance, was the strangest thing the trapper had 
c\er heard. Onward it came. And as it drew 
nearer, the trapper's instinct to fire proved too 
strong to be resisted. Carefull>' he sighted along 
the barrel and pulled the trigger — once — twice — • 
three times! 

Within the cabin, Bruce had been dreaming — 
dreaming of fighting in France. The purr of the 
battle-planes was in his ears. As he gradually 
came to himself, the purring of the planes became 
more and more distinct. And then the dream 
broke ofT as he sat up, fully awake. What was 
that! He seemed to hear the distant hum of an 
airplane motor. That was a sound he could never 
mistake. But of course it was foolish, and he 
smiled to himself at the thought. Then the three 
shots sounded in his ears. With a great efTort he 
gained the door. There the purr of a plane 
became unmistakable — it could be nothing else! 

"McInt>Te!" he cried, reading in the trapper's 
eyes what had happened, "Mclntyre, don't shoot 
again — that 's an aeroplane, man, it 's an aero- 

The big trapper hung his head. He had heard 
stories about the aeroplanes in the Great War, but 
he had ne\-er seen one — and certainU- nothing of 
the kind had ever before penetrated into that part 
of the wilderness. 

But Bruce was paying no attention to his new 
friend. His eyes followed the plane in its flight. 
There was something ])eculiar about it. It had 
been flying fairly low — but now it rose several 
thousand feet. This might ha\-e been to a\-oid 
the gun-fire. Yet, strangely, the pilot seemed 
loath to leave. Aroiuid and around he flew. 
And then — down, down the ])lane dropped, head 
first, twisting and turning. 

"I must have hit him!" cried the trapper, with 
terrified eyes, and he gripped Bruce fierceh' by 
the arm. 

"Not necessarily," said Bruce. "That 's the 
old spiral. He 's jirobably afraid you 'II shoot 
again. Watch him right her before he hits the 
lake. Whoever 's n>ing her is a real pilot — I could 
see that from the first." 





Mclntyrc watched a sight which his e>es had 
never before beheld. He still gripped Bruce's 
arm hard, convulsi\-ely tightening his hold as 
the plane quickly righted itself and then landed 
neatly on the surface of the lake. But a little 
later, as the pilot stepped ashore, it was Bruce's 
turn for astonishment. 

"Vou — you!" he stammered. "But how — tell 
me how — did >ou happen — " but he became too 
weak to stand and sank down on the soft earth. 

"Gee, old man, but I 'm glad to see you ! There 
• — there now — ^it 's all right. Better stay where 
>ou are for a spell. I can see you 're pretty' much 
all in. They never came nearly so close to getting 
\ou o\'er in France, did they now?" laughed the 
man, who had been Bruce's chum in the flying- 

"But," Bruce cried weakly, almost overcome 
with astonishment, "what in the world are you 
doing here?" 

"Easiest question you ever asked," came the 
hearty- answer. "That 's the new plane you or- 
dered for the company. She arrived fast week. 
Is n't she a beauty, Bruce? And as soon as she 
came, your father wired for me at Montreal — and 
my only instructions were to find you." 

"But how did you happen to be exactly here?" 

"Pure coincidence." 

"And you came down, thinking the shooting 
was queer?" 

"That 'sit." 

"Well, of all things!" Then quickly Bruce 
asked: "My friend did n't score a hit, did he? It 
was just a mistake. But let me introduce you two. 
Mclntyre, this is Jimmie Carew, the greatest 
fighting flier that ever sat in a plane." 

"No, that last is wrong — he 's the one, there!" 
Carew smilingly told the trapper as they shook 

hands in cordial comradeship. Then he turned 
to Bruce and urged: "Now cut out all foolishness 
and get right back into this cabin and lie down. 
You need all the rest you can get, so we can fly 
back to-morrow morning. No," — he cut off an 
interruption, — "I 'm boss on this trip, and we 
don't fl\- back till to-morrow. You might as well 
make up your mind to it." 

And Bruce saw that there was nothing else for 
him to do. 

Mclntyre offered to find Sam Sargent and give 
him the news. The camp from which Bruce had 
strayed was only two lakes distant, and the trap- 
per was glad to paddle o\er in the morning and 
leave the message. That was the point from 
which Sam was working, the old camp to which 
he came back e\"ery few days as a base. 

".And you 'd better see he gets the e.xtra grub 
I brought along," said Carew, "for we '11 be back 
home in the morning in less than two hours and 
won't need it, but Sargent and Parker may be 
running low." 

"Sure," answered Mclntyre. "But what was 
that you said about two hours?" 

"E^sy," said Carew. "Tw'o hours — or less. 

But the trapper did not reply. Miracles were 
coming to pass too rapidly and he was bewildered. 

And the next morning, as the mightiest eagle 
shook herself free of the lake for that two-hour 
run, with her pilot and passenger on board. 
Mclntyre was still absorbed in his amazement. 
The thing was unheard of! Such a miracle had 
come to pass in the wilderness as he had never 
thought to see. He was still standing spellbound 
on the shore of the lake as the plane passed high 
over the top of the farthest hill and then slipped 
suddenly out of sight. 




Author of "Cinderella's Granddaughter" 


Katherine Embury is a sophisticated, ratlier blase, girl wIiq belongs to one of those touch-and-go families that 
see very little of each other. With her brother Don on a ranch in Wyoming, her father in Alaska, and her mother 
called suddenly to Bermuda, the girl goes to visit a great-aunt, reputed not to have slept outside her own house for 
twenty \ears. Katherine arrives to find the house closed and the aunt in Seattle. Patricia Ward, a childhood 
playmate living near by, takes her home, where Katherine makes the acquaintance of the Wards, very much of a 
family. Unknown to their guest, all the Wards are planning to leave the next morning for their summer camp in 
Vermont. As Katherine does not look like a girl who would be happy in camp, Pat and her mother, to the boys' 
disgust, decide to postpone their own departure for a few da\'s. Katherine discovers the sacrifice and insists on 
being taken to camp. On arriving in strange and, to her, uncouth surroundings, Katherine bears herself like the 
sportswoman she is. But at night Birch Camp is very still. 



Birch Camp at midnight was ver>- still. Kather- 
ine, staring \vide-eyed into the darkness of the 
first sleeping-tent, thought that she was the only 
creature awake in all the world. Her bough bed 
felt as soft as down, she had ne\er been more 
comfortable in her life, but neither had she ever 
felt less inclined to sleep. She lifted her head, and 
the night breeze stirring through the tent touched 
her cheeks with cool fingers. Through the open 
flies she could see the camp-fire sunk to a red ash: 
Then her head drop|>ed back on the green denim 
pillow and she \vaited tranquill)- for sleep. There 
was plenty to think of. 

There was, for instance, the odd and not unin- 
teresting sensation occasioned by the fact that 
she could not put up her hand and flash on an 
electric light. The darkness was there to stay, 
undispeUed, whether she liked it or not. This was 
typical of other facts that the past seven hours 
had forced upon her consciousness. In camp one 
took the world, had to take it, as it was made. 

The point was, would she make good? Could 
she catch a fish if she tried? Could she cook. one 
palatabh- if she caught it? She had always hither- 
to found herself able to do anything which she set 
out to do. Given a Httle time, she thought she 
could hold her own. She would e\en learn to 
sleep after a while. So she lay and thought, quite 
ready for the morning to begin. 

The morning, howe\'er, was in no haste to ar- 
rive. Katherine again propped herself on an el- 
bow and sur\-eyed the world through her tent 
fUes. The camp-fire still smoldered, though more 
dully, the stars still bathed brightly in the lake. 
Katherine wondered what the night would look 
like if she were out in it. She sat up abruptly and 
silently pulled off her blankets, felt for her stock- 
ings, drew them on, slipped her feel into her shoes, 
litT arms into a thick bath-robe. To the bath- 

robe she added the quilt, stood up furti\-ely, hold- 
ing her breath and drawing the quilt around her. 
She crept to the foot of the bed, felt cautiously on 
the top of her trunk for a minute, and flitted, a 
stealth)-, bundled shadow, from the tent. 

The night, dim and strange and very cold, en- 
folded her. The girl shivered and drew the quilt 
closer. It was lonely and a little uncanny to be 
the onh- person awake in the midst of the woods 
at such an hour as this. How dark nights were! 

She stole softly to the other side of the camp- 
fire and felt on the ground with her hands. Good ! 
She had remembered rightly about the wood. 
She stirred the coals with a stick, laid her wood in 
place, and, drawing an old bit of carpet nearer, 
crouched on it, waiting. Now the logs were 
catching. Little tongues of fire ran along the bark, 
joined hands like children at play, and danced 
uproariously, leaping into the air. Oh, the cheer 
of warmth ! 

After a while she put out a hand to the portfolio 
she had brought with her from the tent. To 
Mother? No, Mother might worry at the thought 
of her daughter awake and writing letters at stich 
late hours of the night, One of the girls? She 
drew out her portfolio and uncapped her fountain- 
pen while she tried to decide whose name shotild 
finish the salutation. "Birch Camp. Heart of 
the Woods. Dear — " 

Katherine frowned and nibbled the end of her 
pen reflectively. Suddenly a picture flashed into 
her mind of Pat and Phil as she had seen them 
once that evening in the circle around the camp- 
fire, heads together, conferring absorbedh' with 
the give and take of jierfect understanding. It 
was n't her habit, but — why not? She began 

Dear Don: 

Do you remember once, when we were little, wonder- 
ing how the night looke<l at two o'clock in the morning? 
I can tell \'ou, though my watch is put away in my trunk 
with the clothes that 1 wore when I came here. In the 
woods you tell time by the sun, and by the moon and 




Stars, too, I suppose, if you know how. I don't, but I 
• know the night has been going on for a long while. It 
must be almost through. 

I am sitting out here by the camp-fire, because I 
can't sleep in my tent. I never slept in a tent before, 
you know, or on a bough bed. Do you have them at the 
ranch? Oh no, I remember now, you live in sheep- 
wagons. Everybody but me is asleep and has been for 

I came up here yesterda\' to the Wards' camp, and 
six days ago I did n't know one of them. Have you for- 
gotten ' Patsy' Ward and her brothers, with whom we 
used to play at Aunt Marcia's? 1 had. But she picked 
me off Aunt Marcia's doorstep last week exactly as 
though I had been a lost kitten. I must have looked 
rather friendless. Vou see. Mother left suddenly for 
Bermuda with Aunt Isabelle (she has probabh* written 
you), and I left suddenly with myself for Aunt Marcia's, 
not knowing Aunt Marcia had just left suddenly with a 
friend for Seattle. Sounds like a play, does n't it? 
Enter the Wards. Tall, scholarly looking father; big 
mothery looking mother, with lovely eyes; three jolly 
boys, the oldest. Phil — about your age; Pat, alias Miss 
Patricia Ward, my age; small sister; nice aunt. Scene 
shifts to a camp in the woods. Old clothes. Wooden 
plates. General absence of dress parade. Don't you 
dare laugh, but Pat and I wear our hair in braids down 
our backs. You know', I never could see what you 
found in a sheep-wagon to be so enthusiastic about, but 
— Well, Pat did n't think I 'd like it here. I don't know 
that I do, but I am interested — tremendously. It is 

My fire will be going out presently. Perhaps I had 
better give my bed another chance. Did you ever sleep 
on boughs and, if so, how did you do it? And when 
was it? Tell me truly, 


P. S. The stars are n't so bright and the sky is get- 
ting pale around the edges. I verily believe it is coming 
dawn. If it is. I shall certainly have to sit up to see it. 
I think I am a little excited. Why, Don, I never was 
awake before, a whole night, in all my life! 



"Time to get iiji! Time to get up! It 's time to 
get up in the morning!" 

Katherine opened her ,eyes and surv-eyed the 
singer doubtfully. Had she been asleep? "Time 
to get up?" she mocked. "It is never time to get 
up. I was having a wldly exciting dream and 
you knocked it quite out of my head." 

"I should hope so at this time in the morning. 
It 's six o'clock." 

"Six o'clock? And she calls it late!" 

"Late for the woods. Father and Marian are 
getting breakfast." 

"Then what are you putting that on for?" 

"Oh, I can't resist a dip in the lake before break- 
fast, even if there 's only time to stay a minute. 
You have to be punctual at meals, you know, at 
Birch Camp. If an\bod>' is late, he takes what is 
left or lives on crackers till the next meal." 

"("heerful ])rospc(t. W hicli are you proposing 
to do this morning.''" 

"I am proposing to get there on time. But I 
won't if I wait for \ou another minute." 

"Who said anything about waiting?" 

Pat straightened from struggling with a re- 
fractory shoe-lace. "My goodness, Katherine 
Embur>'! How did you do that?" 

"Could n't say. Never did it before. I think 
you spoke of a dip?" 

Pat laughed and led tlie way from the tent. 
"You 're a wizard, a perfect wizard. I ne\er 
dreamed of being half so quick, and I thought I 
was rather fast myself." 

"It must have been the emergency," said Kath- 
erine, modestly. 

Ferns wet with dew brushed their feet as Pat 
led the way at a run down a winding wood-path. 
Sunshine flickered through the branches overhead, 
splashing the dark trunks with light. Suddenly 
the path opened on a narrow strip of white beach 
and a spring-board rising well out in the sparkling 

Shouts greeted them: "Hello! You 're late. 
Almost time to go in." 

"Cold?" questioned Pat. 

"Scrumptious!" rejoined Phil. 

"Dandy!" said Fred. 

"I '11 bet it 's freezing." Pat kicked of!" a shoe. 

"Try it and see." Phil dove from the spring- 
board and, coming up, shook the water from e>'es 
and nose as he hailed Ills bruthcr. "Luxur\', old 
man. What?" 

"You bet!" Fred took a long lazy stroke or two. 

Pat kicked off the other shoe. "I know you 're 
both kidding, but — " She waded in and promptly 
began to squeal. "Oh! Oh! It 's awful, Kath- 
erine. Below zero, I think. 

Katherine laughed and, running past Pat, 
flung herself full length into the lake. 

"Oh, you Spartan!" 

But when Katherine reached the s|)ring-board, 
Pat was there beside her. 

"You know how to swim all right, I see," Fred 
said to the guest. 

"Oh yes." She acknowledged his praise indif- 
ferently. "I can do all the stunts — in salt water. 
I 've ne\'er been in fresh before." 

"Don't stay in too long," he cautioned. "The 
reaction is slower in coming and there 's not so 
much of it." 

"No danger of our sta>ing in long this morn- 
ing," said Pat. "There 's the five-minute horn. 
Oh dear!" groaned she. "If it did n't take me 
two whole minutes to get into the water, I 'd 
ha\e longer to sta\' when I 'm here. See that 
log? I '11 race you to it and then I '11 race >ou back 
to shore. Be careful not tt) wet your hair. There 's 
no time to dr>' it this morning." 

They raced, and Pat won both lengths by a 




stroke or two. She won also in the siirint to the 
tent which followed, but Katherine nianas>eri to 
dress faster. Bright-eyed, and glowing from the 
e.xertion, the two slipped into their seats at the 
breakfast-table before the johnn>'-cake had fin- 
ished its first round. 

Never. Katlierinc (hipui;lil, had aTi\ thing tasted 

•'KATHI-.KIM.. .MHBl.HD THK INIJ n[- }ll:i< FEN I<i;iM-;CTl\KLV 

SO good as that joliinn-cake, unless it was (he 
bacon and eggs which accompanied ii. 

Noncommittally she lent an ear to the boys' 

"I say. Ruffles, did you salt away that extra 
wood before you hiked for the milk this morning?" 

"Me? What do )-ou take me for?" 

"Where is it then?" 

"Where \ou left il last night, I guers." 

"That 's just where it is n't. Xot a stick of it." 
"Burned it all up, did n't we?" 
Here Fred joined the discussion. "There were 
three or four good chunks left after I put some on 
the fire at bedtime." 

"Hedgehogs," suggested Nick. "The}- 'II eat a 
keg of n.iil-i, if \-n\] ;,vive 'em time." 

"No hedgehog ate all 
that wood," declared 

"Sleep well?" .\unt 
Ida tossed the question 
across the table to 

"As well as most first- 
nighters, thank you." 

"\\"hich is generally 
nut a wink," interpo- 
lated Fred. 

The girl met his quiz- 
zical look smilingly. "Pat 
can tell j'ou she had hard 
work waking me this 

"I should sa> I had," 
laughed Pat. "I could 
n't seem to persuade 
Katherine that when the 
sun had been up for 
hours it was time for us 
to be up too." 

"She did n't say how 
many hours," said Kath- 
erine. "\\'hen was sun-" 

"You saw it!" Phil 
llashed at her. 

"Is' it the thing to see 
in the woods? Then of 
course I saw it. I 'm not 
missing anything." 

His eyes twinkled. "1 
'11 bet you 're not. But 
you 're game all right. 
Who puts up the grub 

"Fred and I get din- 
ner," said his aunt. "The 
girls aredown for supijer." 
Kalherine's heart lluttered, though nobod\- but 
herself was aware of the fact. 

"Father posts who 's what for the week eveiy 
Saturday," Fred explained to the new-comer. 
"If you '\e got a long tri)) planned, you can gen- 
erally trade off for somebody else's time — pro- 
N'ided you don't miss out on too many dinners." 
"Dinner is n't bad," Pat said. "We don't have 
many kinds of things." 




"Bin what we have, w^e want 'fillin','" cut in 
Phil. "How much of a traniji are you ^ood for, 

"I don't kiU)w exactly. Four or fi\e miles eas- 
ily. 1 ought to be able to do more." 

'"We *H warm >-ou up gradually. WTiat do \-ou 
say to a hike to the Bowl this morning, Patrick?" 

Pat clapped her hands. "Oh jolly! Not too 
far away and perfectly lo\'ely." 

"'The Bowl?'" queried Katherine. 

"The Jade Bowl," said Aunt Ida. "Most won- 
derful color. It 's a beauty." 

"Giant's Drinking-cup," supplemented Fred. 
"You '11 think so all right, when you see it." 

"Now I have n't the remotest idea what to 
expect. Is it a rock?" 

"A rock — sticking up in the air? Oh no, it is n't 
that. Nobody tell her," commanded Pat. "It 's 
so perfectly gorgeous not knowing what kind of 
a thing you 're going to see till >'ou see it. You 
can make up stories about it all the way." 

"I would n't know how to do that." 

"Then I '11 make them up for >ou. Is every- 
body going?" 

"Not I," said iMrs. Ward. "I think I shall stay 
at camp and get thoroughly settled." 

"And I have some letters that must be written 
this morning," Aunt Ida announced. 

"I 'm going to finish my new fishing-rod," de- 
clared Father Ward. 

"I '11 cut for home early, Aunt Ida," Fred 
promised. "So don't worr>' about jour dinner 

Inipetuousl)- they fell upon the morning's 
tasks. In an astonishingly short time, from an 
orderly camp issued a party of voung people, 
their spirits as gay as the morning. 

For Katherine, the hours were full of new ex- 
jjeriences. She did n't e\en know what this walk 
was taking her to see. A jade bowl? What was 
a jade bowl — outside a curio shop or the house of 
an art collector? 

Whatever it was, the path to it led through 
woods, loitering pleasantly, a mere thread of 
trodden brownness curving among tall pine 
trunks. Abruptly the path abandoned the w^oods, 
or iierhaps it was Nick who abandoned the path, 
for the bed of the stream. Up they went, the 
boys leaping sure-footedly from rock to rock, 
Marian dancing over the gray stones like a bright 
bit of thistle-down, Pat teetering on ewry stone 
for pure joy. Katherine jumped to a (lat gray 
rock, landed firmly on both tennis-shod feet, 
marked another, leaped for it, and went flitting 
away as lightly as though she had spent her life 
negotiating her wa>' up parched mountain brooks. 

She six)ke to the boy beside her. "I did n't 
know ainthiiig could be such fun again." 

"Like it?" asked Fred. "Just \ou wait!" 

"Till we get to \our * Bowl '?" 

"The bowl 's all right. But this trip is tame 
coni[)ared with some around here. If }.-oti 're keen 
on rocks and things., we can furnish "em." 

"I don't know what I 'm keen on. I only know 
I feel — the wa>- a glass of charged water looks." 

"I get >ou. Here we go — up." He indicated 
a narrower, rougher rock-channel, tumbling at 
right angles into the one they were following, like 
a shower of stones throw-n down the hillside. 
"It 's the straight way to the bowl." 

Ahead, through green branches, they could see 
the others mounting sturdih', as though by the 
windings of a rough-hewn staircase. 

"Hot!" announced Fred. 

"It is so still," panted the girl. 

"Some exercise, too. Don't forget that." 

"Do I look as though I w'ere forgetting? And 
I am holding you back. You need n't. you know." 

"What 's the point in getting to the place first? 
You 're doing first rate. This last bit is the worst. 
The bowl 's around that next bend." 

"Really? Let 's hurry." 

With a burst of speed the>' caught up with the 

"Welcome to the Jade Bowl! " cried Pat. "Docs 
it look the least bit the way you could n't imagine 
it would?" 

.'\t Katherine's feet la>' a circular |k)o1. narrow 
but deep, cupped in the nock. A tin\' waterfall 
sli|)[)ed silently down a sheer wall to feed it. Its 
oNcrflow brimmed in an inconspicuous trickle 
through moss\' stones. On either hand the banks 
of the ravine, thick-set with trees, rose to a blue 
sky checkered with interlacing boughs. \'er\' 
tranquil the pool was. and so clear that at the 
bottom of its marvelous green water could plainly 
be seen a bunch of pale maple-keys that had fallen 
from an overhanging tree. 

"It is jade!" Katherine exclaimed. "I never 
s.iw anything like it ! gives that purple tone 
to the water at the brim?" 

"Rather fancy, I call that," said Phil. "Edge 
of the bowl flares a bit. so the color of the rock 
shows through. Slate, voii know. It 's all slate 
aroimd here." 

"But the color!" cried Katherine. "I could 
look at it for hours. Are thrrt- m.inv' things in 
the woods like this?" 

"Lots." Phil took a living leap over a I)iiuldiT. 
"You bump into 'em everywhere." 

"Did anybody think to bring a hmcli?" inquired 
Fred, gravelv'. 

It was easier going down than coming up. but 
for Katherine a shadow had tallen over the sun- 
shine. It was silly, she told herself, to let a simple 
reference to food worrv her. as sillv as it was 




sluiiid. N\'\ertheless, the fact remained that 
Katherine Kniburx", the cool, the adequate, the 
resourceful, was bothered. Every step took her 
nearer dinner, and after dinner, but unaxoidably 
next, would come supper. She hoiked Pat was n't 
counting too much on her assistance. 

And then, under the pine-trees, Pat fell inin 
step beside her and remarked casually, "What do 
you sa\- to having shortcake for sujiper?" 


"Strawbeny. Father was expecting Jake o\cr 
this morning with an express box, and he aKva\s 
brings berries. I told Aunt Ida to save us four 
baskets. It 's good, the batter is easy to make, 
and we can both hull and cut." 

"That will be our dessert, you mean?" 

"The Ward kind of shortcake is a meal, not a 
dessert. It is n't a sweet cake and we don't top 
it with cream. Of course, it 's a lot of work to 
hull so many berries, but exeni'thing is some work 
and — " 

"I don't mind work," said Katherine. 

It was relieving to see Pat so carelessly confi- 

But when that night, with berry-stained fingers, 
she followed into the dining-tent, bearing a second 
luscious shortcake, — she had insisted that Pat 
carry the first, — and met a salvo of ravenous ap- 
plause, Katherine was under no misapprehension 
regarding her part in the feast. It was Pat's sup- 
per. She had helped, had hulled and picked over 
and sliced, but her help, though interested, had 
been of the most mechanical sort. Sometime, she 
vowed, somehow, it should be different. For all 
that, there was a queer satisfaction in the present. 
As she set her shortcake before Mr. Ward she 
knew, amid all the alien strangeness of camp life, 
a sudden feeling of belonging. 



K.\THERINE took the new life exactly as she had 
taken the morning dip — she plunged in with a 
,shi\er, but with no outcry. And as her bod)' 
had warmed to its work in the water, so now her 
senses quickened to their strange exertions. She 
never complained; thanks to quick wit and close 
obserx'ation, she made few blunders, and laughed 
at her own mistakes. Obligingly prompt to claim 
her turn in getting up and going for the milk be- 
fore breakfast, she proxed as ready with the ]ier- 
formance as the [jromise. 

"You 're the best guest we ever had up here," 
F>ed tokl her. 


"Most of 'em fuss over something. You make 
u business of learning the ropes." 

"It is a business." 

"You 're right, but they don't all see it that 

How much of a business it was, perhaps only 
Katherine herself fully comprehended. She had 
set herself to its mastery as she would have set 
herself to a series of problems in algebra given 
her in school; the thing just had to be done. 

Now she began to find a quite inexplicable 
pleasure in swinging campward, tired and dusty, 
after a long afternoon's tramp in the open. She 
drojiped to sleep at night as promptly as Pat and 
s|irang up as eagerly in the morning for the run 
through wet ferns to the beach. She felt oddly 
alert. ali\e. Her feet were set on a pleasant trail 
that led her far from the old roads. 

However, she was to have a glimpse of her for- 
mer indifferent self, and it came about unexpectedly 
on a walk with Phil to the farm-house where the 
Wards obtained their \egetables. 

"How 's Don?" Phil asked. 

"Well, I suppose. I have n't seen him for 
months. He went West with a college classmate 
without coming home. They 're on the same 
sheeji-ranch in Wyoming where Don spent six 
weeks last summer." 

"I saw him for five minutes after the game last 
autumn," Phil said. "He was feeling pretty fit. 
Had just earned his 'Y' you know. Shame about 
that knee of his." 

Had Don trouble with his knee? Katherine 
wondered. He had never spoken of it at home. 
Had Mother known? Probably not. Mother had 
spent last November, and the months following, 
with Feather in California. Perhaps she ought to 
ha\e been aware of it herself. She could not 
imagine Pat being ignorant of an injury to Phil 
or Fred. The color mounted to Katherine's 
cheeks. A chance acquaintance had given her 
news of Don. as though it were Don and she, in- 
stead of Phil and she, who had been strangers. A 
quite imwarranted resentment against the news- 
bearer flared in the girl's heart. 

But no girl could cherish irritation, swinging 
along under a sunny skj- at the high tide of the 
year, with a madcap wind puffing in her face and 
beside her a companion as jolly and quick and 
friendh- as Philip Ward. They reached the farm 
on the best of terms, and Phil ran off to the vege- 
table patch, while Katherine was borne into the 
house liy an insistent farmer's wife. 

"Please don't stop >our work," she begged. 
"It is only the middle of the forenoon, and jieople 
are alwa\'s busy in the morning." 

"I was just rollin' out a pie or two. The crust 
will keep." 

"Oh, won't you go on rolling it out and let me 
watch von?" 




Nil)l)iing a doughnut, Katherine's eyes followed 
the deft fingers manipulating rolling-pin and knife. 
"It looks like magic." she said, as, with a swift 
slash, the bright blade sheared superfluous crust 
from the edge of a plate poised delicateh- on three 
finger-tips of the cook's left hand. "Is it very 
hard to make?" 

"Pie-crust? Easy as roUin' off a log, when you 
know how." 

"Really? Could you — would you tell me how?" 

"Why, sure I \\i\\. Thinkin' of makin' some?" 

"Yes," said Katherine. "It is Pat's and my 
iurn to get dinner to-morrow at the camp, and if 
I could make a pie or two — " 

"I 'II make you a few and send 'em over in the 
mornin'. It won't be no trouble. I '11 be glad to." 

"How kind of you! I 'm sorr>% because yours 
would be much better than mine, but I am afraid 
it would n't quite do. You see, we are supposed 
to cook all the dinner ourselves. At least, that is 
the way the others do, because they all know how- 
to cook. I have a good memon,' and I am fairly 
accurate at repeating a thing I have seen done 

"Are you sure you can?" Pat asked, when Kath- 
erine confided her project. 

"She told me exactly how. The only thing I 
am afraid I may not manage right is the baking." 

"I '11 fix the oven for you. We '11 need it for 
the |iotatoes anyway." 

"And I '11 watch and see how you do it, so as to 
know next time." 

The following forenoon two absorbed \-oung 
persons vanished into the kitchen tent, excluding 
all inquisitive hangers-on. 

"I never made pies," Pat confessed ner\-ously. 
"If these should n't happen to come out right, I 
suppose we can give 'em berries or something — " 

"They are coming out right," said Katherine, 

Coolly she buttoned on an enveloping apron, 
quietly she hunted through the stores for her 

"Here is the molding-board," Pat told her, 
"and the rolling-pin." 

"Thank you. How many shall I make?" 

"Three at least." 


"If it is manners not to cat when you 're hun- 
gry, we have n't any, in the woods, as you know 
very well. Three won't be any too many." 

While Pat's accustomed fingers were busily pre- 
paring the vegetables, Katherine set self-reliantly 
to work. She had not boasted in sa\ing that she 
had a good memory, and her hands, though un- 
skilled in pie-making, were nimble and quick. 
A school cooking course counted for something; a 

sound brain counted for more. Above all, there 
was an incentive. It was quite different from 
preparing a part of a luncheon for a dozen finicky 
girls to nibble on. This was man-sized food, made 
to appease real hunger. She softK' hummed a 
little as she worked. 

"Oho, you have made pies before!" Pat de- 
clared, when the crisp, buff-tinted circles stood 
steaming on the kitchen table. 

"Those are the first pies I ever made in my life." 

"Then how in the world did you do it so well?" 

"Ha^■e n't you learned by this time that I am 
an expert copy-cat? I shall know how to cook 
steak after I watch you this noon." 

Pat poked gently at the flaky crust. "How 
good they smell! Our dinner 's a success, all 

Praise from efficient Pat was w'orth ha\ing. but 
there was even better to come. 

"Pies!" shouted the boys, when the pastry made 
its appearance on the dinner-table. 

"Jiminy! Who did this?" squealed Nick. 

"They bought 'em!" Phil declared. 

"Indeed we did n't!" hotly Pat rebufled the 
charge. "Katherine made them." 

"Honest?" Nick turned on the guest. "Cross 
your heart?" 

"Double cross it. Pat is my witness." 

"Dandy pie!" announced Fred, a miimtc later. 
"Hope the Pater puts you and Pat on the dinner 
squad often." 

Phil laid down his fork and, rising, made Kath- 
erine a deep bow. "If 1 had a hat, I 'd take it oflf 
to you!" 

It was all very jolly, but it was more than 
jolly. Katherine became conscious, almost at once, 
of a subtle change in the attitude of the camp- 
ers. Perhaps, it was onh- because she had proved 
herself to her own satisfaction, that she felt as 
though she had pro\ed to them that it was in 
her to meet the new exactions — that she, too, 
could be counted on to bear a responsible part in 
camp conduct. 

Yet, after all, the pies only made her sure of 
herself. It was the rainy day that fairly took her 
b>^ surprise. A wet day in camp is wetter and 
duller and more temper-trxing than is a rainy 
da\' in any other imaginable situation. The camp- 
ers, according to age and gender, sewed and read 
and wrote letters and cut paper dolls through a 
quietU' happy morning, while a stead\' drip-drip- 
drip beat on the canvas roof of the living-tent and 
fretted the gra>' water of the lake. 

It was after dinner that Katherine made her 
astonishing discovery. After dinner looked siir- 
])risingly like before dinner to the outward eye. 
No break .showed in the leaden clouds. The \oung 
people had the li\ing-tent to themselves, Mr. and 




Mrs. Ward and Aunt Ida ha\ing vanished with 
the avowed intention of taking "forty winks." 
Pat and Katherine, whose turn had come again to 
get dinner, washed their baking dishes in the kitch- 
en and laughed a Httle at the growls of the boys. 

"I don't care if it rains all da>-," Pat said. "I 
think it 's going to." 

"I hope it will," Katherine rejoined calmly. 
"I want to finish my book." 

"Phil has finished the first reading of his, so it 's 
no wonder he 's restless. Now he 's going back 
o\-er the pages where he stuck in papers. The 
book fairly bristles with markers. Phil 's a queer 
boy. But as he has been through this book once, 
he may be looking for trouble this afternoon. If 
he goes off for a traniji in the rain, we can read 
in peace, but if he happens to choose to think u|) 
something to do inside, it will be too amusing to 

As it happened, Phil did neither. He had the 
best intentions of returning to his own book, but 
as he dumped on the living-room table the pile 
collected from the same article of furniture, when, 
an hour earlier, hasty hands had turned it into a 
dining-table, and started to pull toward him "Men 
of the Old Stone Age," his eye was captured by 
"Pride and Prejudice." No harm in dipping in 
while the girls were busy. The brown hand whirled 
the leaves rapidly; the black eyes scanned the last 
page, probed for a minute midway between the 
covers, and reverted to the beginning. 

Katherine, after a \-ain search through the book- 
shelf, found him absorbed, the fingers of one hand 
clutched in his hair, those of the other thumbing 
the pages under his racing eyes. 

"That is my book," she said at last, politely. 

Phil read on unheeding. 

"That is my book." The pretty voice repeated 
with soft emphasis. 

"What 's that? This is n't half bad, you know. 
Let me have it for half an hour, won't you?" 

The black eyes never lifted from the print. 

.\ week ago Katherine would ha\e smiled pleas- 
antly and returned with honest indifference, "Oh 
certainly. It does n't in the least matter what I 
read." To-day the thought ne\er occurred to her. 
She stood for a minute, her quiet gaze on the in- 
tent black head, the broad flannel-clad shoulders, 
the humorous twist of the lips. A feeling quite 
new to the girl stirred within her. She wanted that 
book and she wanted it now. Moreo\er, she knew 
she had a right to it. "Is n't it a rule of the camp 
to respect other people's claims to the books they 
are reading?" 

"What d'you say? Oh, yes. Take a look at 
mine for a bit. Fair exchange — that 's no rob- 

"Thank you, I prefer to read ni)' own." 

"Oh, come now, just for a minute — " Another 
page slid over. 

"Are you quite sure i"OU will like to haxe me 
read yours?" 

Under cover of their various occupations the 
others were co\ertly watching. 

"Sure. That 's a good girl." The dark eyes 
did not once look up. 

Katherine smiled graciously, turned, and 
walked around the table to a seat opposite. 
There she drew "Men of the Old Stone Age" 
toward her and deliberately, without rancor, 
running her fingers through the pages, began to 
remo\e the markers. 

Phil came to life with a jump. "Here! Quit 
that! What are you doing?" 

"Fixing it so that I can read comfortabK." 
Her calm glance lifted. Black eyes clashed storm- 
il\- with quiet gray. "So many papers bother me," 
she explained imperturbably, and returned to her 
excision of markers. 

For another second Phil glowered. Then his 
anger cooled and he strode swiftly around the 
table. "Here 's your book. And I beg your 

"Thank you. Here is yours — in a minute." 
She began to put back the slips of card-board. 

"Don't trouble yourself. They were n't stuck 
in haphazard." 

"So I inferred. I remembered the pages as I 
took them out." 

"The dickens you did!" 

"Here it is. I think you will find them in the 
right places." 

He shifted "Men of the Old Stone Age" to his 
left hand. "Kit, you 're a white man. Shake 
hands, and accept my apolog>'." 

Quiet settled on the tent, a quiet tuned to the 
steady- rhythm of raindrops on the can\'as roof. 
The boys and Pat returned to their books. 
Marian's nose was buried again in "Little 
Women." Katherine resumed her course through 
"Pride and Prejudice." 

"Gee, but she 's thorough!" Phil addressed his 
reflections to a monkey-faced person on the page 
before him. "Knocks me clear out in the first 
round and never gi^■es the thing another single 

Unaware of his scrutiny, Katherine read on 
and on. She was not even conscious of surjjrise 
at the completeness of her own absorption. The 
time for that was to come later, the time, too, for 
marveling at the strength of desire that had 
possessed her. Just now she was whole-heartedly 
engag<-d in following the fortunes of Kli/abelli 

(To be continued) 



The orange-red beam of light from the swinging 
ship's-lantern dipped and swayed from side to 
side of the narrow cabin. It showed the red coat 
of the soldier who sat at the table; it lit the pale 
face of Peter Perkins, the stoop-shouldered clerk; 
it shone on Granny Fletcher's clicking knitting- 
needles, and, in a far corner, it dropped across the 
white paper upon which Master John Carver's 
goose-quill pen was moving so busily. Once in a 
while, at long intervals the light swung so far, 
with the plunging of the ship, that it penetrated 
e\eii the cranny behind the big beam where An- 
drew Newell was crouching, with his knees 
doubled up to his chin and his head bowed, to 
keep out of sight in the shadow. 

"One more dip like that," the boy was thinking 
desperately, as the exploring ray seemed to seek 
him out of fell purpose, "and the whole company 
will see me. How will it fare with me then, I w^on- 
der? Will they cast me overboard?" 

So far, howe\'er, the little company w'as quite 
unconscious of his presence. Master Car\-er laid 
down his pen and began to read aloud in a low- 
voice to the two men who sat near him, David 
Kritchell and William Bradford. 

The hidden boy could not see the first two, 
but he had a full view of William Bradford, who 
sat beyond, a young man with broad, square 
shoulders where the others had the stoop of 
scholars and clerks, whose open brow and clear, 
merry eyes w-ere in contrast to the serious and 
stern faces of his companions. 

"This Mayflower is a rolling ship," complained 
the old woman who was knitting; "it has tumbled 
my ball of yarn out of my lap so many times that 
I will even let it go where it wills for a while." 

The gray ball, slowK" unwinding, rolled across 
the cabin toward .Andrew's hiding-place, but for 
the space of a few minutes no one noticed it. The 
.soldier had reached the climax of the story of one 
of his campaigns. 

"I drew my sword," he was sa>'ing, "but there 
were five cut-throat Spaniards all rushing upon 
me at once. I struck — " 

"When last you told us that tale, Captain 
Standish, you made it only four," Grann>' 
Fletcher interrupted tartly, "three big ones antl 
a little one; and the time before — " 

"Ne\'er mind the other limes, wt)man," returned 
Standish, testily. The lurching of the ship had 
spilled the ashes from his ])ipe. ser\Tng to irritate 
him still more, so that he added savagely, "Wc 
will all have tales to tell soon, I will wager, of 

Indians that burn and scalp and slay even,- Chris- 
tian that they see." 

"Heaven have mercy 1" cried the granny, cast- 
ing up her eyes. "Such dangers as lie before us! 
Perhaps those who turned back on the Speedwell 
did wisely, after all. Where is my ball of yarn?" 

It was \ery near to Andrew, but the name of 
the Speedwell had made him wince and draw him- 
self closer into his corner. It was on that \er\- 
ship that he should ha\e been sailing back to 
England, as he well knew. 

His uncle, the only relati\e he had in the world 
and no very kindly one at that, had agreed to lake 
the boy \\\t\\ him on this great adventure of plant- 
ing a Puritan colony in the New World. But with 
the first day of the voyage, the worthj^ man's ar- 
dor had cooled and he had been glad enough to 
avail himself of the chance of return when the 
leaky Speedwell turned back. A hasty council 
had been held in the Mayflower's cabin as to who 
should go on and who should be carried back to 
England, at which gathering .Andrew, in spite of 
his uncle's protests, had pushed into the front 
rank of those who wished to go forward. 

"We are already o\ercrow-ded, and it is the 
able-bodied men that we need," John Car\-er had 

".And those who will make solid and wortln 
citizens," Peter Perkins had added at his elbow, 
with an unfriendly glance at Andrew's shabln- 
coat. William Bradford was the only one who 
had looked at him kindU', and even he had shaken 
his head. 

"It is a great enterprise," he said, "but we must 
needs abide by the rule of the elders as to who is to 
go and who must return." 

That shabby coat was now the worse ft)r a 
great rent in the shoulder and a smear of tar on 
the sleeve, put there when Andrew had squeezed 
into a narrow hiding-place between two great 
coils of rope, instead of entering the crowded boat 
that put off for the other \essel. For a whole 
day of light winds he had waited in an agony of 
suspense, while they lay close to the Speedwell, 
ne\er seeming to get so far awa^• that he was safe 
from being returned to her. Toward e\ening, 
howe\er, the breeze freshened, the two shijis had 
drawn apart, and while the whole company was 
gathered in the bow to see the last of their com- 
l)anion \essel, .Andrew had slippwl below to hide 
in some better ])lace than on the wet, open deck 
of the Mayflower. A footstep in the passage had 
alarmed him so that he had dashed into the main 




cabin and crawled behind a beam, for want of a 
lietter refuge. Here he still lurked, cramped, ach- 
ing, and hungry', wondering how soon the lantern 
or the bail of yarn would be the means of betray- 
ing him. 

Just as he felt sure tliat Cranny Fletcher's 
sharp eye must ha\-e caught sight of his protruding 
elbow, there came a di\"ersion in the sound of 
scurrying feet on the companionway and in the 
headlong entr>' of two excited girls, one of about 
fourteen years old, the other twehe. 

"Oh, Father," cried the elder one, seizing David 
Kritchell's arm, "one of the sailors just helped me 
to climb up to look into the pen where the sheep 
and the poultry are, and what do you think! There 
is a little new lamb amongst them, not more 
than a day old !" 

"Nay, my dear Drusilla," her father remon- 
strated, "do you not see that this is no time to 
speak of such matters? Vou are interrupting 
Master Carver." 

"There is no harm wrought," John Carver said ; 
"she brings good news, for sureh' it promises well 
that our flocks should already begin to increase." 

"But it is a — a black sheep," Drusilla declared. 
"You cannot think how strange it looks among 
I he white ones!" 

"A black sheep?" cried Cranny Fletcher, in 
shrill consternation. "There is a sign of bad luck, 
indeed ! It is enough to send us all to the bottom. 
A black cat's crossing our path could not be a 
worse omen." 

"We are scarcely in danger from the passing of 
any black cats," William Bradford observed, 
with twinkling eyes. "As for the black lamb, it 
shall be your ver\' own. Mistress Drusilla, since it 
was you who brought us tidings of it. I think this 
expedition of ours is too earnest and weighty an 
affair to be brought to ruin by one black sheep." 

"Nay, nay, we are as good as lost already," 
wailed the granny, so \'oluble in her lamenting 
that John Carver was forced to tell her sternly to 
hold her peace. 

"Cobwebs and moonshine!" exclaimed Miles 
r Standish, filling up his pipe, "There are enough 
I straight swords and ready muskets in this com- 
pany to drive away any sort of bad luck." 

Cranny Fletcher, much subdued, got up to 
I fetch her yarn, which still rolled liack and forth 
at the far end of the cabin. The crouching boy 
held his breath as it moved first toward him, then 
away, and then, with a sudden plunge of the ship, 
tiMiibled directly into his lap, so that he and the 
old woman stooping to grasj) it were brought face 
to face. The poor soul's ner%'es were too badly 
shaken to withstand the shock of seeing that un- 
exyiected, tar-streaked countenance so close to 

"The bog>-man, the e\il one iiim.self come to 
destroy us all!" she screamed in such terroi- that 
all in the cabin rose to their feet. 

"Come forth, whoever is there," conmianded 
Bradford, sternly. 

It was in such manner that Andrew Newell, 
gentleman adventurer at the age of fifteen, made 
his appearance as a member of the company of 
the Pilgrim Fathers. 

There followed an uproar of questions, re- 
proaches, and rebukes, with Cranny- Fletcher's 
shrill scolding rising high abo\e all the rest, until 
John Carver struck his hand upon the table for 

"We must not talk of what the boy has done, 
but of what we are to do with him," he began. 
"He is amongst us, without friends — " 

"And without money to pay his passage, I '11 
be bound," observed Peter Perkins, in an under- 
tone. "Look at his coat; look at his dirty face! 
This is no company for waifs and ragamufiins. 
Born to die on the gallows, that is the sort he is!" 

The Pilgrims, v\hile few of them were rich, were 
nearly all of that thrifty class which had little 
patience with careless poverty. In their ejes, 
.Andrew's ragged coat was less to be forgixen than 
his uninvited appearance among them. 

Drusilla was tugging at her father's elbow. 
"Think how much he wanted to come, to dare all 
this for the sake of seeing the New World," she 

"It is not zeal for our faith that has led him," 
said Peter Perkins, o^■erhearing her, "but mere 
love of adventure." 

"And is lo\e of adventure so wicked a thing?" 
cjuestioned Bradford, his deep, quiet voice over- 
riding all the buzz of excited talk. "I can under- 
stand wh>' the l)o>' wished to go with us and I will 
be responsible for him. You ha\e, many of vou, 
brought servants, bound to >-ou to repa>' their 
passage by a year or two years of labor. This lad 
shall be bound to me in the same way and I will 
stand surety for him. Do j'ou agree?" he said to 
Andrew; "will you serve me?" 

Did he agree! Andrew felt, as he crossed the 
cabin to his supporter's side, that he would die for 
this young elder who stood among his gray-haired 
seniors and gaxe the boy the only friendly smile 
in all that hostile company. 

"He will bring us ill luck," he heard (iranny 
Fletcher whisper to her neighbor. "Is not one 
black sheep enough for our voyage?" 

"Born to die on the gallows, I know the look of 
them," Peter Perkins returned, wagging his head. 

Through the long days of the voyage that fol- 
lowed, those two seemed like watchful, sharp- 
tongued ghosts that haunted .Andrew's footstejjs. 
Whatever went amiss, the>' laid the blame U|ion 




liini. wliatcvcr he did was bound, in their eyes, to 
lie wrong. 

"There are always scolds in ever>' company," 
Bradford told him one day, when the reproaches 
of his two enemies seemed past bearing. 
"Whether such jsersons wear breeches or petti- 
coats, they are just the same, and real men must 
learn to close their ears to them." 

Day b>' day Andrew grew to admire ever more 
this man who had befriended him. Bradford's 
kindliness, his good sense, and the steady burning 
of the fire of his enthusiasm made him stand out 
from all the rest, since amid the depression and 
the deadly weariness of the long vo\'age he was 
ever cheerful, confident, and certain of their 

"I was only of your age when I first joined the 
company of the dissenters, myself," he told An- 
drew once, "and I looked with all a boy's wonder 
on the ups and downs, the bickerings and com- 
plaints, the discouragements of their venture in 
establishing a church and in making their pil- 
grimage to Holland. But now I can see that it 
was mere human nature, and that there is real 
laatience and courage in the heart of e\-ery one 
of them." 

Hostility toward Andrew abated somewhat 
during the voyage, although, to the end, Brad- 
ford, Carver, David Kritchell, and his two daugh- 
ters were the only ones who treated him with an>' 
real kindness. .And that \oyage, even as Bradford 
was alwa^'s prophesi,-ing, came to an end suddenly 
just when thej' were beginning to feel that life on 
the high seas must last fore\er. .\ndrew and 
Drusilla had come on deck before the others one 
cliill, early morning in November, a morning of 
light winds from the west, with the wide sea still 
stretching endlessly all about them. Then, "Oh, 
.Andrew! " "Oh, Mistress Drusilla!" each cried to 
the other in the same breath, for each had per- 
ceived the same thing. The sharp odor of salt 
spra\', the sting of the sea wind, had altered 
strangely; there came instead warm puffs of air 
across the water, while a line like a dark cloud 
stretched along the horizon. They had reached 
America at last ! 

That going ashore — how they had dreamed of 
it, and how unlike it was to what they had 
thought! They were used to a land that was 
green through most of the winter, so that they 
looked with dismay at the brown, bare woods, the 
unfamiliar, somber green of the pines, and the 
line of rolling hills in the distance. 

They coasted along the shore for days, finally' 
choosing an abiding-])lace merely because winter 
was coming close and some decision must be 
made. The men who landed first reported that 
there was high open ground, a cheerful, chatter- 

ing stream of fresh water, and a good prospect 
o\'er both sea and land. 

"We caught sight of four Indians and a 
dog," Captain Standish said, "but they stayed not 
for our coming and stopped only to whistle to their 
beast before they ran away. Yet we thought we 
saw them later, peeping and peering among the 
forest trees." 

The ne.xt morning they came ashore all to- 
gether, with bags and bundles and precious pos- 
sessions, with the swine and the poultry and the 
bleating sheep from the pen amidships. Drusilla 
Kritchell could scarcely be separated from her be- 
lo\ed black lamb, but Andrew, who was to go in 
the boat with such of the livestock as could not 
swim, promised that he would take good care of it. 

"And a fine pair they will make, the two black 
sheep of ill omen," remarked Peter Perkins, who, 
amid all the bustle of landing, could still find 
time for a bitter word. 

"A goodly place," said David Kritchell, cheer- 
ily, as the^• stood on the beach, surveying their 
new home and waiting for the last of their gear to 
be landed. The thin sunshine lay upon the flat, 
wet shore and the chill wind seemed to search out 
the \er>' marrow of the travelers' bones. The 
cries of the gulls circling above them sounded 
harsh and lonely. The last of the boats grated 
its keel on the gra\-el and the whole company 
turned their faces toward the hill. Suddenly 
Granny Fletcher, half hysterical, threw up her 
hands and lifted her voice in a long wail. 

"We will perish here in this wilderness!" she 
cried. "God meant us to endure our persecutions 
in patience at home and not flee from them to a 
land where wild beasts and savages will soon make 
an end of us. What \\ill we eat? \\ here will we 
lay our heads? Oh, England — England — !" 

Her cry died away in choking sobs, while the 
others looked at one another. The Mayflower 
rode in the tideway, her sails, wet from last night's 
rain, all spread to dry, white and shining in the 
sun. The very wnd that filled them blew full and 
fresh toward home. Yet, to the everlasting honor 
of the Pilgrims let it be said, no other face betrayed 
hesitation or fear. Whatever was in their hearts, 
men, women, and children all took up their bur- 
dens and set forth up the hill. 

The>' found the company gathered in a circle 
on that spot where, later, the meeting-house was 
to be. 

"Let us look to God in jjrayer," said John 
Car\er, simpK', and e\ery head was bowed. The 
ser\ice was a short one, but at the end of it the 
anxious faces had rela.\ed, the women smiled 
again, and even (branny Fletcher dried her eyes. 
William Bradford, feeling a tug at his coat, turned 
about (luickly. 




"It is not true that there is naught for us to 
eat," Andrew told him in an excited whisper. "I 
was digging, just for play, in one of those round 
mounds of earth — look, there are a dozen of them 
along the shore. They must have been the savage 
men's treasure - houses, 
for see what I have 
found within!" 

He poured into Brad- 
ford's hand a stream of 
something red-yellow like 
gold. It was not mere 
metal, however, but 
something far more pre- 
cious, the roimd, ruddy 
kernels of Indian corn. 

The weeks that fol- 
lowed were difficult and 
full of toil, while there 
arose slowh' upon the hill 
the little huts built of 
logs and chinked with 
mud, and in their midst 
the square common house 
that was meeting-house, 
arsenal, and granary all 
in one. Winter drew in, 
food supjjlies ran low, 
and the settlers dipped 
deeper and deeper into 
the Indians' corn. 

"We will pay the red 
men for it, as soon as we 
are given opportunity," 
the elders all agreed ; but 
no one came to claim 
possession, and no In- 
dians showed their faces 
where the white men 
could see. 

"I would it were so 
that we could make pa\ - 
ment to somebody," 
Bradford said more than 
once to Andrew, yet could 
offer no solution of the 
problem of how it was 
to be done. None of the 
men ajiproved of taking 
what was not theirs; but 

in the face of such famine, they knew it was folly 
to leave the corn untouched. Andrew did not heed 
their talk greatly, for he was busier than the rest, 
being one of the few who had any skill with a 
fowling-piece or a fish-line. He was more shabby 
and ragged than ever, with chims>- patches of 
leather sewed where his coat had gi\en way, and 
with a rude cap made of the skin of a fox. Many 

nights, however, wiieii he drojiped asleep on his 
bed of straw beside William Bradford's, he would 
smile to himself in the dark, knowing that he was 
happier than he had e\'er been before. 
And then came the sickness. 


One of the elders, Giles Peabody, was stricken 
lirst. He sat shivering by the fire before the com- 
mon house at evening, he was burning with fe\er 
at midnight, and before sunrise he was dead. 
Three more were ill on the day that he was buried, 
and by the next morning there were a dozen. 
Soon in e\ery family there was some one dead, 
some one d>ing; while fewer and fewer were left to 




go fnim house to house to care for the sufferers. 
William Bradford labored like ten men, and 
taught Andrew to be nearly as useful as himself. 
Urusilla Kritchell, although she had her mother 
and Granny Fletcher sick in her own house, still 
managed to go forth e\-er\- daj-, with all the 
gra\'it>' and earnestness of a grown woman, to 
nurse and scrub and care for motherless children. 
She met Andrew at twilight one evening as both, 
almost too weary to set one foot before the other, 
were coming dow-n the hill from the common house. 

"My mother is almost well again," she told the 
boy as he took her basket, "and Granny Fletcher 
is mending, too, although she is still light-headed 
with the fever. But three more of the Peabody 
children have been taken. I ha\e been with them 
the whole day." 

Andrew followed Drusilla into the house to set 
down her basket on the table, and there discov- 
ered Granny Fletcher huddled in the big chair by 
the fireplace, for she had refused to stay in bed. 
She was alternateh' muttering to herself and 
babbling aloud. 

"So we are to perish after all," she was say- 
ing. "A blight lies hea\y upon us. Some wrong 
we must ha\e done. Was it because we took food 
that was not ours and never repaid? We thought 
we were starving, but to die in this w-ay is worse 
than to star\-e. God has forgotten us. He has 
hidden his face from us because of our sins." 

She turned and saw Andrew standing by the 

"I said you would bring us ill luck!" she cried. 
"It was you who broke into the red men's store- 
house and laid hands upon what was not ours." 
Her voice rose high, then dropped suddenly al- 
most to a whisper. "For all the harm and mischief 
>ou ha\e done, I forgi\e >ou. I will not go before 
the Judgment Seat thinking ill of any man, not 
even such as \ou." She closed her eyes and 
slipped down limply in the chair, while Drusilla 
ran to aid her. 

"Do not heed what she says!" the girl cried 
over her shoulder; but the door had closed and 
Andrew was gone. 

Inside the common house on the hill a row of 
stricken men lay on the straw; but some were 
mending and none were dying, so that William 
Bradford had leisure to come forth and sit down 
by the fire that inirned before the door. Silently 
Andrew came through the dark and found a seat 
beside him, first flinging a fresh log upon the blaze. 
Something stirred outside the circle of ruddy light ; 
then, as the flames leaped from the fresh fuel, 
there was revealed an ugly, yellowish dog that 
sniffed and skulked among the shadows. Andrew 
whistled to him, but the creature gave a strange, 
uncouth >elp of fear and ran awa\- howling. 

"That is no dog of ours," the boy observed 
wonderingly; "where could he ha\e come from?" 

"I think he is the same that we caught sight of 
in those days when we first landed. " Bradford 
answered. "He was with four Indians, the only 
ones we ever saw." 

"It is a strange thing that they ne\er came near 
us again," Andrew said. 

Bradford did not repl\- at once, so that the two 
sat in silence for a little. When the older man did 
speak at last, his voice sounded broken, wear)', 
and listless. 

"No, not strange," he remarked slowly. "The 
Indians fear us and they know how to hide in the 
forest like foxes. Do you ever think that there 
ma\' be those whose eyes are alwa\s watching us, 
knowing how we are stricken, counting the dead 
and waiting — waiting until we are so few that they 
no longer feel afraid? That dog has waxed very- 
bold. It may be that his masters are waxing bold 

"We ha\-e buried the dead b\- night and le\-eled 
the graves so that no one could count them." 
declared Andrew, huskily; "and we are not quite 
all gone yet." 

"No," said Bradford, "but we are growing 
perilously few." He was silent again and seemed 
to go on with diflficult\-. "I would that we had 
ever been able to offer pa>"nient for that corn we 
used. I ha\e measured all that we were forced to 
take and ha\-e set a sum of mone\' against it to be 
ready if the chance for pa>ing should e\er come. 
Perhaps >ou had better know that it lies in a bag 
in m>' chest, so that if — if I should be — " 

"Master — Master Bradford," cried .Andrew, in 
agony. He touched the other's hand and found 
it burning hot, and saw at last, by a sudden flar- 
ing of the fire, that Bradford's face was flushed 
and his e>es glittering with fever. 

"Help me to go inside, boy," he said. "I have 
been trsing to rise these last ten minutes and have 
not had the strength. It is nothing — nothing, but 
I think I will go within and lie down beside the 

Half an hour later, Drusilla Kritchell was sum- 
moned from the kitchen by an unsteady tap on the 
outer door. .Andrew Newell stood upon the step. 

"I must ask a boon of you, since there is no one 
else to whom I may turn," he said abru[)tly. 
"Can >ou prepare me food to carr\' on a journey? 
I am going into the forest to find some one whom I 
ma>' pay for the grain we ha\e taken." 

"Into the forest, alone, to find the Indians?" 
she exclaimed. "Oh, vou must not. It is certain 

She looked him up and clown in the light of her 
candle and added bluntly: "You are not even 
propcrK' clad; your coat is so worn and thin that 




>ou will perish with the cold. The sickness will 
fall upon you all alone in the wilderness." 

"It does not matter," he responded indiffer- 
ently. "Go I must, and if I do not succeed, I will 
never come back. Will you ask your father. Mis- 
tress Drusilla, to tend my master when I am gone? 
He is stricken with the dire sickness, too. I will 
come at sunrise to fetch anything you can give me 
In carry on my way." 

He closed the door sharply and \anished into 
the dark. 

The sun was just coming up through the winter 
fog, a round red ball like a midsummer moon, 
when Andrew set forth next morning, the little 
hag of money safe beneath his coat, the scant 
bimdle of Drusilla's pro\'isions under his arm. A 
great, long-legged shadow strutted before him, 
seeming to mock at him and his fantastic errand. 
'I'o come face to face with the lurking Indians, to 
e\|)lain that the white men had used their corn 
and wished to repa\' them, surely it was impossible. 
^'et Andrew shook his head doggedh- and repeated 
almost aloud, "If I do not succeed, I will ne\er 
come back." His devotion to William Bradford 
and the terrible thought of what the sickness 
might have wrought before his return dragged at 
his heart, but he turned his mind resolutely from 
such thoughts and trudged steadily on. 

There was something about his ajjpearance that 
was not quite as usual. Even the grotesque 
shadow ahead of him showed it, in that absence 
I of fluttering rags and gaping elbows that had 
formerly marked his attire. He had a new coat, 
a warm substantial one, that bade defiance to all 
the chill morning winds that could blow. 

Granny Fletcher, when she saw him in the door- 
way recei\ing his bundle of food from Drusilla, 
had noticed that something was changed. Her 
fc\er had abated a little, nor had it ever been 
great enough to quench her curiosity'. 

"See the lad with a whole coat to his back at 
last!" she exclaimed. "And what a strange color 
it is — rusty black ! VeriK', it might be the coat of 
\()ur black sheep." 

Drusilla flushed, said farewell hastiK.and closed 
the door. 

"You should not talk; it will bring the shaking 
fits upon you again," she said sternly as she ad- 
justed the pillow in the big chair. 

"You need not ha\e been so quick in closing the 
door," complained the old woman; "I have no 
doubt that it was iti no proper way that the boy 
came by that coat. Mercy, child, how heaN-v-- 
eyed you look this morning ! One would think you 
had not slept. But that coat, I wonder now — " 

Drusilla betook herself to another room, not 
waiting to hear more. The secret of Andrew's new- 

coat was no in\ster\- to her, nor to her younger 
sister, sleeping jirofoundly upstairs after a night 
of intense industn,-. There was another who 
shared the secret also, a half-grown sheep, bedded 
tenderly in the straw of the shed, shivering and 
indignant at being robbed of its fleece in the dead 
of winter. 

There had long been a storj- in Drusilla's fam- 
ily that two sisters, one of them her great-grand- 
mother, had, when their father was called awa\' 
to the wars, sheared one of their sheep, spun and 
wo\'en the wool, and made him a coat all between 
sunset and sunrise. Drusilla's spinning-wheel and 
loom had come with her across the sea and stood 
in the corner of the room where she and her sister 
slept. There they had both toiled all night, as 
quickly and skilfull>- as had that great-grand- 
mother of earlier fame. 

"It is a strange color for a coat, but we had no 
time to dye it," Drusilla ajiologi/ed, when she 
gave it to Andrew and bade him put it on. He, in 
turn, was quite overcome with surprise and grati- 
tude and could hardly form a word of stammering 

A light snow had fallen during the night, show- 
ing, as he came into the forest, the lace-like pat- 
tern of squirrel- and ralibit-tracks, and even the 
deep footprints here and there of larger game. 
Andrew scanned the ground eagerly for the marks 
of moccasined feet, yet knew that there was little 
chance of any Indian leaving a trail so plain. 
For want of any real direction in which to go, he 
followed a little stream in whose lower waters he 
had lieen used to fish for trout and whose babbling 
\oice seemed to speak to him with cheery friendli- 
ness as it led him farther and farther into un- 
known country. 

He ate frugally in the middle of the day, then 
tramped steadih' on until dark. It was growing 
\ery cold when he stopped at last, built himself a 
rough shelter of boughs under an overhanging 
rock, struck a fire with his flint and steel, and 
kindled a cheerful blaze. But how small the fire 
looked in the wide, silent emptiness of the forest! 
The rock threw back the heat of the flame, mak- 
ing a warm nook where he curled up and slc]it 
comfortably until morning. Once or twice in the 
night he got up to replenish the fire and to listen 
to the unfamiliar night sounds of the wood, but he 
was, each time, too weary to keep long awake. 

When he arose next morning it was colder than 
ever; his breath went up like smoke in the keen 
air, and the little brook was frozen solid, its 
friendly voice silent at last. 

This second day's journey into the wilderness 
seemed to have brought him into a new land. 
The hills were higher; the great boulders towered 
abo\e his head; the wav was so broken that he 




luui much ditliciilty in making progress at all. He 
still clung to the familiar stream as a guide, al- 
though it had shrunk now to a tiny thread, just 
a gleam of ice here and there under the slippery 
stones and snou-w rcitlicil underbrLish. Nieht 


found him weary and spent and utterK- disheart- 
ened. In all this long journey he had not yet seen 
a sign of any human being. 

With the greatest difficulty, he cut enough 
boughs for a rude tent, and got together a supply 
of firewood sufficient for the night. The fuel was 
wet, his fingers were stitT with cold, so that it was 
a long time before he could strike a spark and per- 
suade the uncertain flame to creep along the 
leaves and set fire to the wood. Since he had not 

dela\ed his journey to hunt or fish b\' the way, 
his food was almost gone. His strength was al- 
most gone also, as he realized when he got up from 
beside the fire and crawled into his shelter. He 
would not be able to journey much farther, yet it 
was his steady purpose 
still to go forward. Al- 
most in the act of nest- 
ling down among the pine 
branches, he fell asleep. 

A troubled dream 
aroused him many hours 
later. X'aguely he was 
conscious that he must 
get up and mend the fire 
or it would die out and 
lea\e him to freeze. It 
took him some minutes 
to summon enough reso- 
lution, but at last, with 
a great effort, he stirred, 
crawled out of his refuge, 
came forth into the light, 
and then shrank back 
again with a gasp of 
overwhelming astonish- 
ment. For there, stand- 
ing beside the glowing 
coals, motionless as a 
statue, silent as the still 
lorest itself, was a gigan- 
tic Indian. 

For a moment there 
was no move made, no 
word spoken, as Andrew 
(Touched staring at the 
>tranger, at the hawk- 
like face, at the firelight 
>hining on the dull red 
of his naked arms and 
knees, at his misshajien 
shadow that danced on 
the snow behind him. 
Fhen at last the other, 
without mo\ing his head 
or changing his expres- 
sion, spoke quietly. 
"You welcome — here," 
he said in slow, broken English. 

Later, Andrew was to learn that many of the 
red men had learned English from the British 
sailors that manned the fishing-boats coasting 
along the New England shore, and that this man 
had e\en made a voyage with one of them. At 
that moment, however, it seemed to the boy 
nothing other than a miracle that here, in this far, 
silent wilderness, he should hear his own tongue 




The Indian drew out, from somewhere in tiie 
folds of his scanty garments, a sHce of dried meat 
and set it to broil before the fire. Andrew snifled 
wistfully at the delicious odor of its cooking, but 
when the red man silently offered it to him, he 
shook his head, so firm was his determination 
that no Indian should know how near the white 
men were to starvation. The man mereU' nodded 
quietly at his refusal, brought out more meat and 
some dried fish, and put the whole before the fire. 
He looked so long and steadily at the boy that 
Andrew felt no detail of thin cheeks and hollow 
eyes was escaping that keen stare. Then the 
piercing glance moved onward to where the re- 
mains of Drusilla's provisions lay upon the ground, 
a few broken crusts of bread and a bit of cheese. 
The stranger made no comment, but \'er>- care- 
fully' completed his cooking, spread the feast u]3on 
a piece of bark and pushed it toward .Andrew. 
With one lean red hand he made a gesture in the 
direction of the settlement. 

"All hungry — starring; we know. D)'ing — we 
know that too," he said. 

"You — you have seen," faltered Andrew, 
thrown out of his reserve by this sudden state- 

"You bur^- dead by night," the man nodded 
slowly; "you smooth graves, we count graves — 
morning." He thrust the food forward again and 
said ]ieremptorily, "Eat." 

And eat .Andrew did, since there was no use 
for further pretense. There was a little talk be- 
tween them as his strange visitor plied him with 
food, but it was not until the ravenous meal was 
ended and the boy had pushed away his bark 
plate that he made any attempt to speak of the 
errand for which he had come such a long and 
weary way. 

"There was some corn left buried near the shore 
where we landed," he began. "We used it and we 
wish to make payment. See, I ha\e here the 
proper sum of money." 

He brought out from under his coat William 
Bradford's bag of coins. 

But the Indian shook his head. 

"The corn not mine," he said. 

"Then to whom did it belong? Where are the 
men who left it there.-'" 

".All dead," the other answered. "The great 
sickness — it took them all away. Only one left. 
He live with our tribe." 

"Then take the money to him," begged Andrew. 
"We counted carefully and wish to pay for every 
measure. Look, it is all here; will you take him 
what should be his?" 

He poured the contents of the bag into the In- 
dian's unresponsive hand, a heap of silver and 
copper coins, with a few of gold. The man turned 

them over with little interest, letting some of them 
drop and disappear in the snow and the ashes. 
I lis e>es brightened, however, when he saw among 
them a big copper penny-piece that was new 
enough to shine a little still and to wink in the 
firelight with a pleasant glow. Andrew, seeing 
what attracted him.. gathered up such of the fallen 
coins as he could find and polished them on the 
rough sleeve of his coat. Then he fetched a hand- 
ful of sand from the tiny bank that he had noticed 
beside the stream and scoured the money until the 
silver gleamed and the copper glowed and burned 
in the red light of the flame. The gold did not 
reflect the fire and was only dulled by the scrap- 
ing with sand so that, in the end, the Indian cast 
it aside as he recei\'ed the rest of the money 

"He shall have it all, that Tisquantum — he is 
last of tribe, and maybe some da\' I bring him to 
you and he show you how to plant the corn for 
nex' year. You would not harm him." 

"I will swear it," Andrew answered. "Does he 
really fear the white men?" 

"All of us fear you. Surely you mus' know it." 

"We have some brave men amongst us," An- 
drew said, "and a soldier who is a famous fighter 
to be our leader." 

"Ugh, you mean round small man in red coat 
who go tramping through forest, musket on shoul- 
der, breaking through the bushes and making 
much noise as giant moose. W'e could slay him 
many times with arrows; he mus' have known it. 
yet he not afraid. No, it is not this man, nor all 
your fighting men we fear." 

"What is it, then?" Andrew asked, much 

Half by signs, half in his imperfect English, the 
Indian sought to explain. And so vivid were his 
gestures, so potent his few words, that finalK- 
Andrew began to understand. 

It was the strange spirit of the English that 
the Indians did not comprehend. When the red 
men were hungrj', when sickness came upon them, 
even when they were weary of the spot where 
they dwelt, they gathered up their goods and 
moved to some new camping-place. When the 
plague first fell upon the tribe that dwelt where 
the white men did now, they broke and scattered, 
carr\'ing the same death to all who were near. 
Their people died in numbers past any counting; 
yet even now the>' were many more than the new- 
comers. But with the white man it was not the 
same. The men had died, and the women, but 
they did not run away. They went on with their 
daily tasks, although they were fewer and fewer. 
The Indians thought that the courage of those 
who were gone must pass into the hearts of those 
who still lived, and even though so>- should 




perish that there was hut one left, they would 
still fear him. since he would ha\c the strength of 

Very slowly Andrew turned this strange idea 
over and o\'er in his mind. 

"And we wonder at you, in our turn," the boy 
replied at last; "how you can find food and li\e in 
plenty- in what seems to us a cruel and barren 
wilderness. If we could learn to be friends, white 

hand, and with the dawn breaking behind the 
dark pines. 

He made his wa>- homeward more easih- than 
he had come, for he knew the countr>- now and 
could follow the stream without so much picking 
and choosing of the way. Although he was free 
from one an.\ier\', there was still a hea\y burden 
upon his heart, for he could not put from him the 
remembrance of William Bradford. — the man who 


, I \ TO VOL . .-IR' ■■ 

men and red men. how we could help each other in 
. many things!" 

So they made their compact of peace and friend- 
liness there by the fire in the heart of the frozen 
wilderness, with the blue wood-smoke drifting 
above their heads and floating away o\er the 
tree-tops. Afterward, when the Indian said that 
they should sleep for a little to prepare for their 
next day's journey, they la\' down side b\' side in 
the warm glow of the blaze; and since Andrew 
had tra\eled far, had eaten fulh', and was iiuite 
worn out, he fell quickh' asleep. I le awoke, much 
'later, with a start, to find himself alone, with the 
newly replenished fire crackling beside him, with 
a package of deer's meat and corn laid close to his 

had his whole-souled dexotion. — of how he had 
sat shi\ering by the fire with the shadow of the 
dreadful sickness alread\' upon him. He hurried 
faster and faster, feeling that the dense wood 
hemmed him in and held him back — that he 
would never reach his Journey's end and hear 
tidings of his master. 

He was free of the fi)rest at last and hastening 
across the stum])-dotted slojie to the huddle of 
cabins beside the stream. How few they looked! 
He had almost forgotten what a tin\- handful of 
dwellings ihe settlement was. He was iianting as 
he ran down the worn ]iath. dashed through the 
empty street, and thundered at the door of the 
common house. It was growing dark; there was 




no li^ht within nor any voice to answer his impa- 
tient knock. Trembling, hesitating in dread of 
what he might tind, he oi)ened the door and 
stepped over the threshold. Fi\e men had kiin 
on the straw the night of his departure; there was 
only one now. At the sound of his footstep, this 
one stirred as though roused from sieeii, turned 
his head and spoke. It was William Bradford. 

"Four days you were gone," Bradford said at 
last, after he had heard the hurried substance of 
Andrew's ad\entures. "Much can hajipen in 
such a place as this in four days. Enoch Fullerton 
and old Phineas Hal! have gone from us, liut the 
others who were suftering here have got well and 
gone about their business. And as for me, four 
days were enough for the coming of the fever and 
its burning out, so that I shall soon be a whole 
man again. Now tell me that strange tale all over 
again; I must have not heard aright, for surely 
what you say is past belief." 

Andrew went o\'er his story, repeating e\x'r>' 
word of his talk in the forest with the Indian. 

"The^- know more about us than we dreamed 
possible," he said, "but we need no longer fear 
them. And they think, poor blind savages, that, 
as we grow fewer, the spirit of those who ha\e 
passed still dwells in those who remain." 

There was a little pause, for Bradford, like 
Andrew, must consider this new idea carefully. 

"Not so blind," he said finalK-; "saxages and 
heathen, \'et not so blind. Do you never think 
that the spirit of this adventure lies not in the 
elders, the older men like me, but in the young 
men, the youths and children — in you? We shall 
soon be gone, for age passes quickly; it is j'outh 
that must take up our purpose; it is on youth that 
the weight of it all depends. E\en this errand of 
yours, without youth it would never have been 
accomplished ; we should ha\e gone on wasting our 
days in doubt and dread, fearing to turn our hands 
to the real conquering of the wilderness." 

The door o])ened in the twilight and sexoral 
men came in, John Carver and three of the elders. 
Bradford raised his \-oice that they might hear. 

"This lad has succeeded in that niadcaj) expe- 
dition from which we ha\e all been saying that he 
would ne\er come back. He has made good our 
debt to the Indians and has brought back good 
tidings and such an understanding of the red men 
as we could nexer ha\e gained for ourselves. 
After this service he shall no longer be my bound 
servant, but a citizen of this community. .Andrew 
Newell, whom we were calling a foolhard\- bo>', 
has shown himself to be a man." 

Therealler it was necessary for Andrew to sit 
down upon the straw again and tell the whole 
story once more, that John Carver and the elders 
might mar\-el anew at his tale. It was not until 
an hour later that he was suffered at last to pass 
out of the building and go down the little street 
to carry his news and his thanks to Drusilla 
Kritchell. The air was soft after the long days of 
cold; there was promise in it that this harsh coun- 
tn,''s climate held spring as well as winter. 

Granny Hetcher, who was well enough now to 
limp out to the doorstep, was sitting on the wide 
stone, wrapped in Drusilla's cloak, while Peter 
Perkins, coming up the path, had just stopped to 
speak to her. Tidings of what Andrew had done 
seemed to have run before him, for Peter Perkins 
took off his broad hat and greeted him with a 
"Good even to you, sir." 

"What is that?" .\ndrew heard in a shrill whis- 
per from the old woman, who had evidenth- not 
yet learned the news; "do you call that wicked 
lad 'sir,' and take off your hat to him?" 

"We may have been mistaken in him after all," 
Peter Perkins returned, in a whisper just as audi- 
ble ; "and it is as well to show respect to one who is 
now a citizen of our colony and who wears a good 
coat upon his back. It is little one can tell of what 
the future holds!" 


We thank ye, Pilgrim Fathers — 
For unchecked right to worship God, 
For every inch of hard-won sod. 
For lavish nature's untapped wealth. 
For scorn of death and pride of health, 
For hariK' frames and sinews strong. 
For blood that boils at sight of wrong. 
For minds that cleave to truth and right, 
For love of peace, but will to fight. 
For our young country's stainless page — 
It is a goodly heritage! 

Mildred Was son. 





When Jack at last quieted his excitable brother 
and obtained his stor\-, he decided to return to 
camp at once. 

"Evidently Paul has wandered off the trail," 
he said, "and is camping somewhere waiting for 
us to find him — or it 's possible he may ha\-e re- 
turned since we left. The first thing to do is to 
get Wa'na back safely, and then, if your chum 's 
not there, to organize another search." 

Following this advice, they constructed a litter 
of saplings and without much trouble carried 
Wa'na to the creek. Paul, of course, was not there 
and they immediately prepared for a prolonged 
trip into the forest. 

"It may be a week before we find him," Jack 
stated in explanation. 

"And I positively won't come back without 
him," added Fred. His brother, being of the same 
mind, nodded agreement. 

Each tied a blanket to his back, and, with 
Walee, set out. Word was left for Jim, the re- 
maining Indian, to strike northward when he 
returned to camp. 

The search-party retraced their wa>' o\er the 
old trail to the rugged country where the track 
took on its serpentine course. 

"How far does it run like this, Fred?" Jack in- 
quired of his brother. 

"About two miles to a spot where we saw some 
cocks of the rock. But it can't be more than a 
mile and a half to where we shot the jaguar. I 
remember we had just passed the dancing-stone 
when we saw the cat." 

"Then probabh' it was somewhere along here 
that he missed it. What do you think, Walee?" 

The Indian agreed that "Marster Fat lose trail 

A few minutes later he paused to point at some 
crushed shrubs twenty yards or so to the north of 
the trail. Hurrying toward these, they disco\- 
ered that the green stalks had been bent down b\' 
the passage of some hea\'\' bod>'. The Indian was 
certain they had been trampled b\' Paul, and 
presently jiroved his assertion by finding foot- 
prints which led directh" away from the path. 

Paul had crossed and recrossed it several times 
in his first panic at getting lost. Fortunately, the 
shrubs had been overturned in his last great flight 
to the canon region. A trail, as plain as if it 
had been conscientiously marked, lay before the 

hunters; the bewildered boy had rushed blindly 
through thickets and tangles, leaving a path of 
trampled bushes behind him. 

In time they came to the rock upon which he 
had fallen, and continued past it. But in a few 
minutes the\- found the>' had lost the trail, and 
returned to the slab whose scraped lichens were 
the last evident sign of the lost boy. By this time 
it was twilight and the>- made camp for the night. 

The next morning \\'alee discovered a spot 
where Paul had climbed the walls of a ra\ine to 
take his bearings, and, as this wEis west of the 
rock, the}- decided that he had turned in that 
direction. At the end of se^•eral hours they stum- 
bled on his first camp. 

At first sight of the primiti\e shelter, Fred let 
out a whoop and raced toward it. But his stout 
chum was not to be found. When Milton and 
the Indian arrived, in spite of their disappoint- 
ment, the former drew a sigh of relief. 

"Well, at any rate, he knows how to take care 
of himself!" he ejaculated. "Evidently he 's all 
right and has moved on in a further attempt to 
extricate himself. Hullo! We have visitors !" 

From the jungle came a series of growls and 
screams. A reddish animal with a bod\' like a 
collie dog, but with short, stumpy legs and a 
broader snout, issued from the undergrowth, 
followed by se\-eral others, and ad\-anced toward 
them at a run. 

The Indian bounded for the rock against which 
the shelter was built, shouting: "Warracabra 
tigers ! Quick !" and was followed the next instant 
by Fred and Jack, who leaped just in time to 
escape the attack of the ugh' brutes. 

The rock on which the>- stood was scarceK" 
more than a boulder, ten feet high and with a flat 
top only four feet in diameter. On three sides it 
dropped almost sheer to the ground, but, on the 
fourth, sloped more gradually. 

Up this slanting side the beasts swarmed, fully 
a dozen of them, with muffled grunts, fierce growls, 
and strange, piercing screams. \\ alee killed the 
first as it reach their platform. Jack fired, then 
Fred, and the rock was swept clear of the hunting- 
dogs. Hastily loading, all three let dri\e a second 
time, and the ground was co\ered with writhing 
forms. The remaining beasts, disheartened by 
their reception, turned, and iiresently the be- 
Icagured part>^ could hear their cries grow fainter 
as the\- fled. 

"Walee, I thought these 'warracabra tigers' 
were all a myth," Jack remarked. "Of course, 1 




knew the dogs existed, but have always taken the 
stories about them with a grain of salt." 

"Warracabra tiger, he bad animal," Walee re- 
plied. "He sometime run in big number, and then 
attack everyt'ing he see dat good to eat." 

"We 've had a demonstration of that," w'as the 
dry rejoinder. "Were >ou ever attacked before, 

"No; me no see warracabras before, but hear 
tell about him. Not common 'round here, or 
Indian no travel in woods. Me t'ink they live 
single and hunt toget'er, oh, ver>' seldom. Don't 
know." The Indian shrugged his shoulders. 

Milton was inclined to agree with him concern- 
ing the packs. If the hunting-dogs were accus- 
tomed to travel in large numbers, they w'oiild 
ha\-e proA-ed a greater scourge to the jungle than 
all its other inhabitants combined; but this was 
not the case. A few stories had come down from 
the interior concerning their ravages, but these 
had been vague and unreliable. If the packs were 
common, the world would ha\"e heard more about 

As the others were turning to leave. Jack spoke: 

"We 'd better skin some of these before the ants 
and maggots get them. They 're too rare to 
science to let them be wasted. Each of us can 
skin one, and we '11 mark the spot so we can return 
sometime for the skeletons of the others. Paul 
can wait for another half-hour." 

Fred demurred at first, but, realizing the value 
(if the specimens, fell in with the plan. His chum 
would not be lost any more in thirt\- minutes than 
he was now. 

The three finest hunting-dogs were slung by 
their hind legs to convenient saplings, and twenty 
minutes later the job was completed. Tying the 
hides into a bundle, the brothers and Walee were 
ready to resume their search. Before starting, 
however, they ate a lunch of chocolate, several 
cakes of which Milton had insisted they carry as 
resers'e rations. 

"We 'd better keep going west ; he evidently was 
traveling in that direction," he announced, as 
the\- were about to leave. "At the end of an hour 
if we don't run across any signs, we '11 turn in a 
big circle, Walee going in one direction and F'red 
and myself in the other, to meet back here at this 

As had happened to Paul, an hour brought them 
to the stream. At this point their plans were 
changed. Fred insisted that Paul had followed 
the water, and the others, though they admitted 
the logic of his idea, were unwilling to tra\'el too 
far in one direction without exploring the sur- 
rounding territory-. 

"But I know he followed this brook, thinking it 
would take him to the creek." 

"Well, Fred. >ou can remain here to build a 
camp while Walee and 1 circle back. If w-e find 
any trace of him, I '11 send \\'alee off on his trail 
and return here alone. I 'm inclined to agree with 
you that he went down-stream, but we can't 
afford to leave any stone unturned. If we don't 
find him, both of us will be back by sundown." 

After they had departed, Fred spent half an 
hour erecting a shelter. The afternoon was still 
young when this was completed, and he started 
out on a little exploring expedition of his own 
farther down the brook. He, of course, was in 
search of tracks left b>' his friend. 

A few hundred yards from the starting-point 
brought him to the object he sought. There they 
were, indented deep in the mud, close to the bank 
where Paul had evidently slijiped, and headed in the 
direction he had been certain his chum had taken. 

Uttering a shout of joy, Fred hurried back to 
the impro\-ised shelter, and, tearing a leaf from 
his note-book, dashed off a message to his brother. 
Then, having placed it in a prominent place, he 
set out alone to find Paul. 

It was approaching night when he came in sight 
of his camp. The first evidence he had of the 
close presence of his friend was a smoldering fire 
built against the base of a tree. Phmging forward, 
he shouted lustily: 

"Hello, Fat! What do you mean by causing all 
this trouble? Where are you?" 

There came no answer. Disappointed, the boy 
strode up to the fire. Yes; there was no doubt of 
it — this was Paul's camp. There was his penknife 
sticking into the tree above the fire. But where 
was Paul? 

Fred sat down to wait. His chum would be 
back presently. 

The minutes passed and he did not arrive. 
Suddenly the listener heard a patter in the bushes 
near by, and, rising expectantly-, prepared to 
greet Paul with open arms. Instead of rushing 
forward, as one would have expected, he uttered 
a startled exclamation and bent down to seize his 
gun. A puma was standing not tw-enty feet away ! 

For a minute the great cat stared in amazement 
at the boy. Curiosity, coupled with the scent of 
meat, had led it to approach the fire, but a 
human being had been farthest from its thoughts. 
Its curiosity being satisfied, and thoroughly 
frightened by the sight of a man, it whisked about 
and trotted ofT rather hastih'. 

Fred was human and a boy. The presence of 
the tawny beast had frightened him, but when it 
turned to flee, mingled with relief he felt a thrill 
of contempt. Without thinking what he was 
doing, he raised his gun and fired. The huge puma 
gave a snarl and sprang into the air. ;\ second 
shot followed. 



Paul was ad\ancing up-stream a hundred yards 
from his camp, when he heard the two shots. 
Hurriedly dropping his load of dn,' wood, he gave 
a shout and rushed forward. When he reached 
the fire he was just in time to see Fred borne down 
by the raging puma. 

For an instant he stood incapable of movement, 
transfixed by the terrible sight, then dashed at 
the struggling pair. The boy was prostrate be- 
neath the wounded cat, which crouched upon him 
with its teeth apparently buried in his back. 
Placing the muzzle of his gun against its ear, Paul 
fired. The puma drew a sobbing breath and 
rolled from off its \ictim. 

Then, to his chum's utter relief, when the 
weight had left his body Fred rose to his knees 
and shook himself. 

"Whew! he almost got me that time! Lucky 
he got his claws tangled up in the blanket I was 
carrying, or I would n't be here now." 

"Then — then you 're all right?" Paul stam- 

"Right as a fellow ought to be, hunting for his 
chum. What did >'ou get lost for? W'e 've been 
looking everv'where for you." 

Satisfied now that Fred was unhurt, Paul 
caught him in his arms and danced a few steps of 

^ ^'^' 

"Jiminy, I 'm glad \'ou came!" he cried. "I 

knew some one would turn up sooner or later, but 

it was awful lonesome waiting. Did 30U strike 

one of my trails?" 

"Saw some of your tracks in the mud se\'en or 
eight miles back and knew you 'd come this way, 
so trotted on after you. Jack and Walee are 
hunting in another direction and won't catch up 
to us until to-morrow. I told them they ought to 
follow the stream, but no, they would n't take my 
advice. What 've you been doing with yourself? 
Been shooting any other pumas?" 

"No," replied the other, smiling queerly. 
"When I reached this spot I made up m\- mind to 
wait, and here 1 am. Have n't seen much of any- 
thing but a couple of howlers. The first night I 
spent about ten miles to the east of here, back in 
the rock\' countr>". Sa\', you ought to ha\'e heard 
the baling frogs!" 

When he had related the stor\'. l-'red laughed 
and told of the wild hunting-dogs. 

"So it 's lucky it was frogs instead of 'tigers' that 
got after you that night," he concluded. "Now 
let 's have a look at the puma." 

It was a large beast, measuring nearly six feet 
from the tip of its tail to its nose. In spite of its 
reputation to the contrar\', the South .American 
puma is a cowardK- creature, and, unwounded, 
has ne\er been known to attack a man. If Fred 
had been satisfied to lea\e this one unmolested, it 

would not have bothered him. It is more solidly 
built than the jaguar, but does not attain the size 
of that creature. 

B>' their united efforts the boys managed to sling 
the cat to a branch out of reach of the numer- 
ous ants which already were exploring its body. 
It was nearly dark when that job was completed, 
and Fred commenced to fee! very keen pangs of 

"Got anything to eat. Fat?" he demanded. 
"This sort of work on top of a lot of walking is 
hard on a fellow's stomach, and I 'm tired of choc- 
olate. Here, want some?" 

"Thanks. There 's a piece of monkey meat 
sticking around somewhere, if the bugs have n't 
eaten it. \\'ait till I fetch it." 

If Fred had been less hungr>', he would not have 
allowed his curiosity to rest there, but the sight of 
the meat temporarih- dimmed all other thoughts. 

While they ate, Paul related the stor\' of the 
monkey fight and the events of the day, which he 
had spent in making a series of radiating trails. 
When the meal was completed he walked o\er to 
a leafy heap with the casual remark: 

"Here 's something that ma\' interest you. 

He tossed aside the pile with his foot, exposing 
a portion of a huge shell. Beside it lay a large 
bod\', minus its skin, and covered with a swarm 
of busy ants. 

".■\ giant armadillo!" cried his astounded friend. 

"Sure. I just left the skin there a few minutes 
for the ants to get a little more meat off it while 
I went for a load of dry wood. They 're making a 
dandy skeleton of the bod\'." 

".\ giant armadillo!" re|)eated Fred, inanely, 
then rushed forward to examine the skin. 

"How did you ever get him?" he demanded a 
little later. "Why did n't you tell me when I first 

"It seemed to me \ou were sort of busy at that 
time," his chum grinned. "Then, a little later, I 
thought I 'd give >ou a surprise. Like it?" 

Fred dragged the skin to the light of the fire. 
It had been an enormous armadillo; the shell 
measured but a fraction under four feet. The 
great feet were as large as his hands and armed 
with long claws, which enabled the creature to dig 
in with ra|iidit\ . From the two halves of the 
scah- shell, which were separated by movable 
bands of similar material, projected a few stiff 
hairs. Those, he knew, were but reminders that 
the shell was nothing more than deformed hair, 
and not bone, as some peoi>lo be-lie\ed. 

When he had examined the skin to his heart's 
content, he demanded a second time of his chum 
how he had secured the creature, and Paul told 
him the storv in the firelight. 

' %HK 








"I WAS feeling pretty lonely last night when I 
turned in," Paul commenced. "I 'd been walking 
most of the da\- and had been so occupied in 
trying to find the main camp that there was n't 
much time left to think of my predicament. After 
I killed the howler, he had to be skinned and 
cooked, so it was dark by the time I was ready to 

"When I 'd finished my supper I sat down under 
the shelter here and looked at the fire. It was 
then that things commenced to look blue. It was 
sort of hard for a fellow, who had been used to 
li\ing in a city where there are crowds of people, 
to be left alone in the jungle. Of course, I was 
getting used to it by that time, but just the same I 
had a feeling that I 'd been cast up on a desert 
island a thousand miles from an>'where. 

"All the noises and queer sounds acted upon 
my ner\'es, I guess, for it was ele\en o'clock be- 
fore I felt at all like sleeping — though I was pretty 
tired, let me tell >ou! 

"I must have been asleep for some time when I 
was awakened by a rustling outside my shelter. 
The fire had died down quite low, and I could see 
nothing. The rustling continued for several min- 
utes. I don 't know why I felt that way, but some- 
how I got it into my head that it was a snake. 
Cold shivers commenced running up and down my 
back and I was afraid to mo\e. You know how a 
fellow gets sometimes at night. It seemed as if 
the thing was in the shelter with me. 

"At the end of ten minutes or so my ner\-es were 
pretty well worn to a frazzle. I made up my mind 
to get out of that shelter and sit by the fire. You 
can just bet your boots. Skinny, that when I 'd 
finally summoned enough courage to move, I got 
out of there with a rush. 

"But when I reached the fire I heard a sort of 
grunt and thought I saw a big animal racing off 
from the shelter — I heard him, anyway. This 
made my breath come a little easier, for I could 
see that at least it was n't a snake. 

"I put some more wood on the fire and sat by it 
for quite a while; but as the animal did n't come 
back, I at last crawled again into the shelter. No 
sooner had I got comfortably fixed, than I could 
hear it working at something on the other side of 
the tree behind me. I commenced to grow a little 
peeved; the thing would n't let me sleep. 

"Pretty soon I crawled out again with my gun, 
and as 1 did so, something dashed olT into the 
bushes from the opposite side of the fire. This 
time I caught a good glimpse of it. It was a deer 
with several spikes to its horns. The light had 
showed it up quite well before it jumped, and I 

could see it was bigger than any deer we 'd killed 
so far. 

"Thinking that was all that had made the fuss, 
I started to go back again, but was stopped by 
another rustle from behind the tree. The deer 
had n't been the culprit after all. 

"I sneaked off to one side so as to get a look, and 
sure enough ! there he was digging among the roots 
of the tree, probably on a hunt for grubs. He was 
in the shadow and I could n't make out what he 
was. I did n't want to fire, because it might be a 
cat and I was n't looking for trouble just then, 
only trying to sleep. 

"With this thought in mind. I threw a chunk of 
wood at it, holding m\- gun ready in case it should 
get angrj^ and run at me. But it did just as I 
e.\pected, and hurried off. 

"When it left the shadow, it had to cross about 
six feet of firelight to reach the next dark spot. 
Although it traveled pretty fast, I could see it long ' 
enough to discover that it was n't a cat, but an 
enormous armadillo!" 

"Jim-in-etti! wh\- did n't you shoot?" inter- 
rupted his eager listener. 

"There was n't time. I was so surprised at the 
sight that I forgot all about my gun. You can 
certainh- belie\e that I was sore at myself. Here 
I 'd had the animal we 'd traveled for weeks to 
find, right there before me not twenty feet away, 
and I 'd let it go! By hicks, I was mad." 

"But how did you get him if he got away?" the 
other demanded. 

"Well, I gave him up for lost," Paul continued; 
"but suddenly I remembered that he 'd come back 
before when I scared him away. I was pretty 
wide awake now, you can bet, and sat down in the 
shadow of another tree to wait. I was n't bother- 
ing about snakes any more. 

"By-and-by I heard something rattling the 
lea\'es, off on my right. Presenth' I could make 
out some bushes waving in that direction. It 
came closer and I commenced to shake. Guess I 
had what they call 'buck fever.' At an\- rate, 
before I e^•en saw the animal, I took aim at the 
bushes where I thought he was, and fired. Wh\' I 
did it, I don't know. Any one in his right senses 
would have waited for the creature to come into 
view, but I just could n't. I did n't even know 
whether it was the armadillo or not that I fired at. 

"A great to-do in the bushes followed the shot, 
and then I heard the animal moving otT. I must 
have missed it. To say I was mad is putting it 
mildly. I sure did say a few things about myself I 

"A search of the bushes showed that no matter 
whether I 'd hit him or not, he 'd got away. Well, 
to cut a long story short, I sat in that shadow until 
daylight this morning, just watching. The 
armadillo did n't show up again." 




Fred grunted disgustedly. He threw another 
log on the fire and returned to his seat with the 
armadillo skin. 

"Still, you got him." he declared in a puzzled 
voice, "here 's his hide; but how could you get 
him if he got away, I 'd like to know.-"" 

Paul grinned and continued. "Sure I got him. 
I was feeling pretty sick at myself when daylight 
broke this morning. After I 'd eaten some of the 
monke>' meat I felt a little better and started out 
to make trails. You know how I was doing that : 
three miles out. carefulU' blazing the wa\', and 
back again; then going in another direction. 

"I was returning from my second trip and was 
kind of tired, when I stumbled over a mound of 
fresh-dug earth about a hundred yards from here. 
One of those horned carrion-beetles stuck its head 
out of the pile as I fell over it, and I realized at 
once that they 'd been burying something. It 
only took me a second to kick the loose soil aside, 
and that 's where I found the armadillo. 

"Evidently I 'd wounded it with my shot, and 
it had crawled away until it died. The beetles 
gathered and had it imder ground in a few hours. 

"Of course, it was co\ered with ants, but the 
beetles had probably got it 'most buried before 
daylight. The ants had n't made much progress 
through the thick hide; and as the beetles had n't 
quite completed their mining operations, they 
had n't commenced to feed. 

"You 'd better believe I dragged that old 'dillo 
back to camp with plenty of speed ! He was quite 
hea\-y and I was prett>- well fagged out." 

For a moment both boys were silent, gloating 
o\er their prize. Then a new idea struck Fred: 

"I guess this about finishes our trip up the 
river. When Jack sees this, he '11 want to start 
down right away. Well, we 've had a pretty good 

"We sure have!" agreed his chum. "The worst 
of it is that I don 't want to go back. A week or 
so after we hit the base camp I '11 have to be head- 
ing toward home, and that does n't strike me right 
at all. When I first arri\ed I 'd no idea what it 
was going to be like. I came only because I 'd 
promised 30U I would, and really hated to lea\'e 
the Big City. You see, I 'd never taken much 
stock in the woods or in wild things before. I 
did n't want to be bothered by them. Now it 's 
grown on me so that I don't want to be away 
from it at all. You can be mighty sure that I 'm 
coming back next year, and it won 't be an>' dude 
that arrives either, but a real collector." 

Milton and the Indian arrived the ne.xt morn- 
ing, and the happ\- party set out for the creek. 
To the astonishment of Paul, the bateau was only 
four miles away in a southerly direction. The 

creek swimg to the westward a short distance 
abo\e camp, and he discovered that his stream 
paralleled it for some miles, and then, turning 
sharply, flowed into it. If he had followed it for 
another hour or so he would have reached the 
creek and returned to camp a day earlier. He 
was happy now that he had not, or he would ha\e 
missed the armadillo, 

W'alee led them by a short-cut back to camp. 
There they found that Jim had returned, though 
how he missed the boy remained a mystery to the 
others and gave opportunity for many jokes at 
his expense, which W'alee and W'a'na were quick 
to take advantage of. 

Their quest having come to a successful end, 
the party of collectors embarked two days later 
for down-river. Instead of the three weeks which 
it had taken them to come, four days found them 
back on the lower Mazaruni. The swift cOirrent 
carried them along at the rate of three miles an 
hour, which, added to the power of their paddles, 
gave them the speed of a colonial express-train. 
The rapids were a source of breathless excitement 
to the boys, and as they shot between the iagj,ed 
rocks, they experienced sufficient thrills to last for 
a lifetime. 

As Paul had said, a week after they reached the 
base camp it became necessary for him to turn 
his face homeward. Fred and Jack accompanied 
him to Georgetown, and W'a'na, his sprained 
ankle having mended, insisted on making the trip 
with them. 

"W'a'na want see Marster Fat go in big canoe," 
he had declared. "W'a'na like Marster Fat and 
want see him all time. No can go Georgetown 
without me." 

The Indian caused them little trouble in the 
city beyond the matter of buying him clothes. It 
was not that he objected to them, but, on the con- 
trar\', that none could be found which were bright 
enough to suit his fancy! Paul solved the riddle 
by giving him one of his own suits, a large black 
and white plaid, and at the end of two hours spent 
with a tailor during alterations, W'a'na emerged 
as the most dandified Indian in British Guiana. 

After two days of waiting in Georgetown, the 
moment came for departure. Paul shook hands 
with them all at the gang-plank. 

"Well, good-by, old Skinny Shanks; so long. 
Jack!" he cried. "I '11 see you all next year. I '11 
come down to slay next time. Here you are, 
W'a'na, here 's something for you to remember me 
by." He handed the Indian his own twelve-gage 
shot-gun. "You can kill plenty of maipurie now." 

W'a'na took the gun to his breast as a mother 
clasps her child, and the boy could see him stand- 
ing on the wharf, fondling it, long after the 
steamer had drawn out of ear-shot. 




Thk iron gates swung wide, and ("lilcs Withy- 
broke, messenger from Warwick Castle, rode 
imder the stone archway into Mountlord Park, 
i ie sat his horse as proudly as a baron; but half- 
way to the manor-house he sprang from his saddle, 
for he saw two boys coming to meet him, and one 
of them was Henry Mountford, master of the 
|)ark and the hall. 

"Good morrow to you. Master Harr},," said 
( iiles, with a bow and a flourish of his hat. ".\nd 
to you. Master Hugh." He gave the second boy 
a careless nod, which he thought respect enough 
to hhciw Harry's landless cousin, Hugh Rolstone. 

"Well met, friend W'ithybroke," returned 
I l.irr\'. "Goes it merrily at the castle?" 

"Aye, sir," the messenger answered. "It goes 
merrier than at Yule-tide, since her Majesty rode 
up >esterda>', with the burgesses and the bailiff 
before her, and all the great lords of her court fol- 
lowing after. And merrily goes it with you, sir, 
lor my lord hath sent me posting hither to deliver 
>'ou this." He gave the boy a letter. ".Xha, 
Master Hal of Mountford!" he chuckled. "Dame 
Fortune curtsies to a young gentleman who has 
the good earl for his godfather." 

That summer, Queen Elizabeth was making 
one of her progresses, and on the journey she was 
pleased to \isit the Earl of Warwick. So now the 
earl summoned his godson to come to the castle 
on an ajipointed day and be presented to the 
sovereign lady of England. And thus wrote liis 

As thy forefathers by great deeds did make the name 
of Mountford glorious, so it behooveth thee to win for 
it new fame. Therefore, since tliou art now fourteen, 
it is lime for thee to gain the favor of her Majesty, for 
then will she set thy foot on the path that leadeth to 

"Come!" cried Harry, exultant, when he had 
read the letter aloud, "w^ '11 pledge the health of 
our good Queen Bess, — and my godfather's too, — 
and yours. Master W'ithybroke, and the health of 
Hal of Mountford, who is on the high road to 
knighthood — and >our health, too, old comrade 
Hugh, for you 're on the same road, ^'ou and I 
go to Warwick together." 

At this Giles Withxbroke shook his head, and 
raised his eyebrows like a wily courtier. 

"His lordship says naught of >our cousin," he 
objected. "At such a time jou could scarce bring 
an unbidden guest without displeasing my lord." 

"I know my godfather better than >oii do," 
said I "i Ie 's the most generous lord in 

land, and he would rate me as a selfish chtirl if I 
brought not my cousin tf> share the good luck." 

But Hugh broke in: "I care not to mince it in 
the Earl of W arwick's train. I 'm not a lackey. 
I 'II ride all day, chasing a buck, but not for the 
sake of bumping down on my knees before the 

There was a flush on liis handsome face, a sud- 
den kindling of his dark eyes. He turned on his 
heel and sauntered away, and both his cousin and 
Giles knew well the cause of his anger. 

"Look you. Master Hal," said Withybroke, 
"my lord is loath to ofTend her Majest>' 1)\' the 
sight of a traitor's son." 

"No one shall call him that while I am b\ ," 
cried Hal, hotly. "Know you not, sir, that an in- 
sult to him is an insult to me?" 

W hene\er Harr\' heard his cousin termed a 
traitor's son, he rushed to battle at once. But 
though he threw down the gauntlet, he could not 
call the charge a lie. Three years before, at the 
time of an insurrection, Hugh's father. Sir Hugh 
Rolstone, had joined the rebel earls in plotting 
against the qtieen, and had become a leader in 
their army. When the earls and their adherents 
had fled before the royal forces. Sir Hugh had been 
obliged to take refuge in Scotland. There he had 
died, lea\ing his only child lU'ither lands nor gold, 
for the estate of the "traitor I-lolstone" was forfeit 
to the crown. Yet the boy Hugh wanted for 
nothing. His twin cousin, Harry Mountford. had 
also been left fatherless, but had come into the 
splendid inheritance of Mountford Hall. Harry's 
mother, the Lad>' Dorothy, sent for Hugh and 
took hint for a second son; and the two boys came 
to lo\e each other like a new David and Jonathan. 

Leaving the messenger to refresh himself, 
Harry went in search of his cousin, and, finding 
him, flung an arm across his shoulder. 

"Heed not that prating coxcomb Willu'broke," 
said he. "Come with me to Warwick, and if m\' 
godfather be not glad to see j'ou, call me no more 
Hal of Mountford. If he spoke not of you in the 
letter, 't was because there was no need. He 
knows that you and I go exerywhere together. 
.\nd he likes you well." 

But I lugh's face did not clear. "Dear old lad," 
lu- answered, "I 'ni gladder than thou of thy good 
luck; but I will not go to Warwick to haw them 
l)oint me out as the son of 'the traitor knight.' 
Oh, Hal! would I were a man grown! Then I 'd 
go there fast enough, and fight an>' one that dared 
insult a Rolstone. " 



Five days later, young Henry Mountford. with 
his servants at his back, set forth on the long day's 
ride to Warwick Castle. Said he to himself, as he 
cantered along: "My lord bids me win the queen's 
favor! but how I 'm to do that, I know no more 
than Ciiant Guy's si-uU cow! But if 1 iln win il. 


I VOW I 'II tell her Majesty about Hugh, and pray 
her not to punish him for his father's deeds, but to 
take him and give him a chance to serve her. 
And when she finds out what a bra\e, good lad he 
is, I warrant she '11 give him back his lands." 

Next morning, Harrv- aw'oke realizing that the 
great event was over. For at twilight of the da>' 
just gone, he had knelt before the queen and 
kissed her hand, and Elizabeth had congratulated 
the earl on having a godson so tall for his years 
and so conieK'. But the poor boy had been 
tongue-tied with embarrassment during the inter- 
view, and he was sure that her Majesl>- would 

never listen to the petition of a blunderini; doh 
like himself. 

That da\- merriment flowed on as steadiK 
within the castle as the river Avon outside its 
walls; but Harry early betook himself to the 
Temple Melds on the opposite shore. Out in the 
meadow two forts had been 
( rected, made of slender timbers 
,ind covered with canvas painted 
to look like stone. One stood on 
the Temple Ditch and was named 
Wild-fire Fortress. The other, 
standing some distance away, was 
railed Castle \'aliant. In front of 
the lorts, earthworks had been 
thrown u]); and upon them was 
mounted artillery' brought up from 
London; in each batteiy were some 
half-dozen cannon and a few 
mortar -pieces. 

What was the meaning of all 
t liese warlike preparations? Why, 
a battle was to be fotight. The 
l-arl of Oxford, governor of Ca.stle 
\'aliant, with a gallant band of 
gentlemen, was only waiting till 
night should fall to attack Wild- 
fire Fortress, which was to be de- 
fended by an equally gallant band. 
13ut as the siege had been planned 
solely for her Majesty's pleasure, 
not a drop of blood would be shed ; 
lor the batteries, loaded with 
blank charges, were to pour out 
I crrific volleys of smoke and flame, 
but no death-dealing iron. 

Hal spent the morning learning 
1 he trade of an artilleryman, and 
-' I pleased the Earl of Oxford that 
he enlisted the boy among his fol- 
lowers and appointed him to fire 
• ine of the mortars of Castle Val- 
umt, a piece which a gunner from 
the Tower was to load. 

E\'ening came. The queen and 
her court assembled at the windows overlooking 
the river and the fields, and the two companies 
of soldiers in full armor, carr>Tng arquebuses and 
cali\ers, marched away to garrison the forts. 
No armor had been found of a suitable size for 
Harrv', but he took his place behind his mortar 
in a fe\er of impatience for the siege to begin. 
Presently, he noticed a boyish figure stealing to- 
ward him. 

"Halt! Who goes there?" He pointed his 
artjuebus at the intruder. 

"^'ou^ old comrade," said a well-known voice, 
and the figure stepped forward into the light. 




It was Hugh! The cousins gripped each other 
like wrestlers, for joy at their reunion. 

"The hall was as dull as a prison without >ou, 
Hal!" exclaimed Hugh. ".\nd this morning some 
strolling players came by and said there was to 
he a battle with cannon, and I was bound I 'd see 
the sport. So I saddled Robin Hood and gal- 
loped off when nobody was looking and got to 
Warwick before dark. Robin 's at the smithy, 
and I 'm lodging over \onder by the mill. The 
poor old miller 's sick abed, but they let me in for 
a shilling. Xobod>- knows who I am, so all 's 

Then Harry told his cousin about the coming 
battle, and that, in addition to a bombardment, 
there was to be a glorious display' of fireworks. 

Hugh sighed. "I 'd give Robin to be in it!" 

"Come, then," said Hal, and he led him to the 
i:arl of Oxford. 

"My lord," said he, "here 's my cousin Hugh 
come to see the sport. Pray you, my good lord, 
gi\e him an arquebus and let him be a soldier, 

The earl consented to enlist Hugh and told the 
lioys to take turns in firing the mortar. Nor did 
he dream that this new recruit was the son of 
Rolstone the traitor. 

And now the siege opened. A herald rode 
forth from Castle Valiant and summoned Wild- 
fire Fortress to surrender. The summons was 
received with scorn and defiance. Thereupon the 
lord go\ernor ordered the bombardment of the 
fortress. What a moment for the boys! Harry 
had the first turn at the mortar, and, promptly 
as any gunner in the line, he touched the match 
to the fuse. A burst of flame in the darkness, a 
thunder-peal that shook the earth, silence again, 
with the smoke of that first war-cloud hea\y in the 
air. .Another roll of thunder — Wild-fire Portress 
was answering. Then came Hugh's turn to fire, 
tor the gunners of Castle \'aliant were com- 
manded to discharge a second volley. So the 
cannonade continued, until the enemy's battery 
was silenced. After that came the order to take 
the fortress by storm. The boys seized their 
arquebuses and entered the front rank of the as- 
saulting column. 

Forward ! With a merry crack and flash of 
firearms. Lord Oxford's band charged up the 
counterscarp. But Wild-fire Fortress was rightly 
named. Suddenly, up from its walls and out over 
the heads of the assailants, shot fire-balls, blazing 
squibs, gigantic wings of flame, hissing golden 
serpents, and fier\- darts which burst high above 
in l)urning rain. The ver>- sky seemed in con- 
flagration and the stars to be coming down in 
showers. I'nder this tempest of fire. Lord Ox- 
ford's men retreated, and the besieged, making a 

sortie, attacked them with spirit and carried off 
a prisoner or two. The soldiers of Castle N'aliant, 
having regained their citadel, had leisure to studv 
the witchlike antics played by the wild-fire. Some 
of the balls and squibs went sailing over Warwick 
Castle; others fell into the stream, and, marvel- 
ous to say, the magical wild-fire was seen to float 
unquenched upon the water and then to spring 
up and fly abroad, flaming with yet greater 

.\ second and a third time the battle was re- 
newed, and, after each bombardment, the besiegers 
made desperate attempts to carry the fortress. 
They brought scaling-ladders to the walls; 
but as often as they climbed up, the fire-balls 
would drive them down. Harry triumphantly 
stepped upon the battlements; then there came a 
rush of fire-serpents overhead, and pride and he 
had a fall together. From the top of the ladder 
Hugh shouted, "St. George and Castle \'aliant!" 
and dropped back hastily, as a squib singed his 

But at last a fearful ally came to the aid of my 
lord the governor. On the watch-tower of Castle 
X'aliant there appeared a terrible dragon. No one 
had seen him flying, but when he had alighted, a 
furnace appeared to be suddenK' kindled within 
him. His outspread wings began to shine, his 
breath took fire between his gaining jaws, and the 
coils of his snaky tail were soon glowing like rings 
of flame. Yet a soldier had the hardihood to ap- 
proach this monster with a burning match, and 
those rascals Harr>' and Hugh dared to follow. 
The man, seeing Hal at his elbow, handed him the 

"Here, boy," said he. "send off his dragonship, 
and brag of it to-morrow!" 

"His dragonship" was perching on a swivel to 
which rockets were attached. Hal applied the 
match. Whoo-oo-nnsli! Away flew the dragon, 
shooting out horrible flames, and alighted on 
Wild-fire Fortress. .\nd what if his flight did lie 
along a wire stretched between the two forts? 
He was none the less a xory prince of dragons, and 
direful was the mi.schief that he wrought. He 
spat burning balls and squibs on the enemy's 
walls, and \\'ild-firi- Fortress became a roaring 
bonfire. Out ruslied the garrison, and, from 
Castle X'aliant, Lord Oxford led forth his soldiers 
to recei\e the surrender. 

Suddenly there rang out an alarm-cr\': "Fire 
by the bridge! The miller's house! To the 

\ ball had sped too far and set fire to the miller's 
roof. Victors and \anquished joined forces at 
once, but precious minutes were spent in filling 
the buckets which had lieen placed near the river 
in readiness for an emergency. Hugh and Harry 




alone remembered that the miller lay helpless in 
bed, and without an instant's delay they dashed 
off to the bridge, and across it to the burning cot- 
tage. One or two villagers stood watching the 
conflagration without daring tn enter where at 
any moment they might 
be caught by the flames. 
But the bojs, with low- 
ered heads, charged 
straight through the 
doorwa>' into the smoki'- 
filled house. They heard 
a choking cry, and as 
they pressed on, stifled 
and blinded, Hugh stum- 
bled o\er a heap on thi- 
floor and found himsell 
caught in a despairinii 
grasp! It was the millerV 
wife, and beside her la\' 
the sick man. He had 
started from his bed onh 
to sink down, fainting, 
and, old and weak a-- 
she was, she had tried 
in vain to lift him. 

"We '11 save him ' 
Run you — for your life!" 
gasped the boys as the\ 
pushed her toward the 
door. Then, running 
back and using all their 
strength, they dragged 
the man across the floor, 
staggered on through the 
ever thickening smoke 
to the entrance, and out 
into safety. A minute 
more, and the cottage 
was wrapped in flames. 
As the young heroes 
emerged, a heart>' cheer 
arose. The rescuing 
band had come up. The 
boys reeled and fell with 
their burden, but willing 
arms lifted them, and,. 
with the man the>' had 
saved, they were carried 
beyond the danger line 
and laid upon the grass by the ri\er bank. 

The fresh air soon cleared their lungs, and the 
cousins sat up and gazed at the red glare jwinting 
the sky. The fire was spreading to the neigh- 
boring cottages, but the men were working 
vigorously to check it. 

"Come, Hal!" cried Hugh. "To the rescue! 
A Mountford and a Rolstone to the rescue!" and 

off he shot to join the fire-fighters. Then, 
"A Rolstone and a Mountford to the rescue!" 
shouted Harr>', darting after him; and presently 
the two were hurrying back and forth with 
buckets between the burning houses and the river. 


An hour later, a triumphant little army marched 
into the court of Warwick Castle. Not a life had 
been lost, every cottage but the miller's had been 
saved, and the band who had done such e.xcellent 
service recei\ed the praises of the Queen. 

Next morning at breakfast her Majest>' directed 
that those who had suffered loss should be amply 



recompensed. Moreover, she inquired «hat rrien 
liad done most gallantly in the batde with the 
llames. It was told her that among the heroes 
were the Earl of Warwick's godson and another 
lad, who had saved the miller and his wife. There- 
upon the queen commanded that the boys be 
brought into her presence. 

"Mv Lord of Warwick," she said tn the earl. 


"you have shown us many a princely pageant, 
but here is the goodliest sight mine eyes have yet 
seen. For here be two as fair striplings as any in 
the kingdom; and though their cheeks are as 
smooth as a maiden's, yet they have fought 
through a siege as valiantly as two belted knights. 
They have shed no man's blood, it is true, but 
they have saved the lives of two good subjects, 
and that I count the gallanter deed." She turned 
to the boys. "If you had been soldiers in real 
warfare, last night," said she, "your stout hearts 
would have won you your spurs. But such knight- 
hood as befits your years you shall have. To-day 
we do found a new order of chivalry and dub you 
Knights of the Wild-fire. .And for better reward 
of your valor, ask any boon you wish and I will 
grant it you. Harry Mountford, I hear thou hast 
outdone St. George. Speak thou first." 

Then Hal burst out with his request. "Sov- 

ereign Lady, there 's just one thing I wish for — 
that your Majesty will be kind to my cousin 
Hugh. He is Sir Hugh Rolstone's son, and he 
lives with us, because his lands are forfeit. We 've 
sworn to be brothers to each other. Now, wherever 
he goes, he hears his name insulted, and he has to 
suffer for deeds he never did. But if it please 
your Majesty to take him and give him a chance 
to serve you — you '11 see he 's the bravest, noblest 
fellow that ever lived." 

The queen listened intently to the boy's plead- 
ing. Then she fixed upon Hugh a keen, steady, 
manlike gaze, and asked him in her deep voice: 

".\rt thou the son of Sir Hugh Rolstone, who 
took arms against me with the rebel earls?" 

And Hugh answered firmly, "Your Majestv', I 
am his son." 

The Earl of Warwick here interposed, heartily 
recommending the boy to her favor. 

When he had finished, the queen said: "Hugh 
Rolstone, thy father once knelt before me, a new- 
made knight, and swore to do me faithful service. 
But anon he gave his ear to false counsel, and it 
led him to break his oath. If I take thee into my 
service, Hugh, as I took thy father, how long 
wilt thou be faithful?" 

".\11 my life long, your Majestv"!" cried the 
boy, with passionate earnestness. 

"Nobly spoken!" said the queen. "But we 
must have deeds as well as words. Here, then, is 
work for thee to do. The name of Rolstone hath 
a stain upon it. Thy work shall be to make it 
clean again. Wheresoever I send thee — go; 
whatsoever charge I give thee — be faithful to it; 
and stand thou ready to lay down thy life in de- 
fense of th>- Queen. So shalt thou wipe awa\' 
that foul spot, and Rolstone will be a fair and 
honored name again." 

Her Majesty then taking the boys by the hand, 
raised them to their feet. 

"My Lord of Warwick," said she, "I give you 
these fair sons of mine to rear for me. Train them 
in all chivalrous exercises, and when they are 
ready, bring them to me, and I will give them 
their knighthood. M>' sons, if you would win 
honor, take the good earl for your pattern. Harry, 
when thou dost rise up Sir Henry Mountford. 
thou shalt ask another boon — one for thine own 
self. Hugh, when thou winnest thy spurs, thou 
shalt win back thy lands also." 

So Mountford and Rolstone set forth side by 
side on the road to honor, and the road led 
through many a foreign battle-field, and over the 
high seas to the Spanish Main. .\nd among all 
the courtier soldiers of those days, none had 
loftier courage or truer hearts than had those 
brother knights, Sir Harry and Sir Hugh. 



As one of the pupils of the W'abhington (D. C.) 
Central High School, I visited the State Depart- 
ment last year to \'iew certain historical docu- 
ments then on display. These documents, I un- 
derstand, are removed from the \aults, where they 
are dejiositcd for safe keeping, not oftener than 
once in a quarter of a centur\'. Indeed, this was 
the first opportunity that the school-children, as 
a body, have had to look upon the papers — an op- 
portunity due to the kindness of Mr. C. D. 
\\'arner of the State Department, who originated 
the idea and who was actually on the scene e%ery 
minute of the allotted time, apparently highly 
pleased with its success. 

On the day that it was m\- good fortune to \iew 
the documents, I was one of the earliest to arrive 
at the department. We entered by the southeast 
door, and I was struck by the beauty of the in- 
side of the building. On reaching the exhibition 
room, we formed in a single line. The first thing 
I noticed was the desk of William Henr>' Seward, 
who was secretary' of state during Lincoln's ad- 
ministration. The desk, though old and worn, 
is still used for business. While waiting for those 
in front to pass on, I took in the general surround- 
ings. All over the room — some behind the cases, 
others keeping order in the line of pupils — were 
officers of the Washington High School Cadet 
Corps. With their gold braid and flashing swords, 
their military bearing and resolute counte- 
nances, they furnished an atmosphere which was 
exceedingly appropriate for the occasion. They 
seemed determined, while they had a breath of 
life left, to carrs' on America's reputation for be- 
ing democratic and fair and for living up to the 
spirit in which those documents were written. 
In the center of the room, Mr. Warner, with his 
white hair and pleasant countenance, was talking 
to one of the cadet officers. Two army officers 
and a naval officer completed the scene. 

The first document which we saw was a copy of 
the Declaration of Independence, below which 
was a part of the original draft, written b\' 
Thomas Jeflferson and with corrections made by 
his own hand. The next object of interest was 
Jefferson's writing-desk, which can be folded and 
carried easily. In fact, Jefferson used this com- 
pact desk while on horseback. In the same case,- 
to prove ownership, is a letter by Jefierson to a 
friend identifying the desk as his own. Then 
came the treaty of peace with England, which 
brought to a close the Revolutionary War in 17S3. 


Next came the Articles of Confederation, so ineffec- 
tual in keeping the colonies together from 1783 to 
1789, when it was replaced by the Constitution 
of the United States. Fittingly displayed in a 
separate case, were the swords of George Wash- 
ington and .\ndrcw Jackson. In the middle of 
the semi-circular array of documents, with the all- 
commanding position it deserv-ed, the Constitu- 
tion was placed. In an upright position, staring 
you in the face, were those famous words, "We, 
the people of the united States, in order to form a 
more perfect union, etc." What matter if in the 
phrase "united States" united was spelled with a 
small u? According to Gladstone, "The Consti- 
tution was the most remarkable piece of work 
ever struck off by the hand of man at any time." 
Every real American will heartily concur with 
Gladstone. Following the Constitution, a fa- 
mous trep.ty of peace with the Indians, signed by 

In congress, July 4, \jjs. 

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Washington, was on exhibition. This was the 
more interesting because of the peculiar marks 
made by the Indian chiefs for their signatures. 

The last document, Lincoln's Emancipation 
Proclamation, was certainK' well fitted to hold 
its place as the grand climax of all, because 
it shows that the American people are not only 
interested in the freedom of their own race, but 
of the world. 

The following curios were also on display: 
Dolly Madison's trunk, in which, in 1812, when 
she heard the British were marching on the Capi- 
tal, she hurriedh' placed as many of her White 
House belongings as she could ; a pair of e>'e-glasses 
used by Washington; a miniature plow made of 
siKer, presented to the State Department by 
the advocate of free siKer, William Jennings 
Br>'an; a medal set with diamonds, which was 
given to America by Turkey in 1892, on the occa- 
sion of the 400th anniversary of the discovery of 

the New World; and last, though not least, either 
in interest or size, a copy of the "Peking Gazette." 
in the queer Chinese writing, which was the first 
newspaper printed in China. 

Although we were rushed through and did not 
ha\e time to examine the documents and other 
relics closeh', yet the exhibition carried with it a 
deep significance. The general public was not 
admitted to the exhibition, and the pupils of the 
public schools of the District of Columbia should 
therefore consider themselves especially favored. 
The thing which the State Department really in- 
tended to gi\e us, and which I believe it did gi\e 
to most of the children, was a greater love for our 
countr\-. I myself could not fail to be impressed 
with the spirit in which those documents were 
written, and thus my lo\-e for my countn,- was in- 
creased. God grant that none who saw those 
documents may ever lose any of the patriotism 
that then stirred within them ! 





The wind went tearing along the street, 
Knocking the little birds off their feet 

And tumbling the flowers flat; 
And the lightning flare jumped right out of 

the air 
And hit a tree with a dreadful glare! 

I don't want to be free like that. 

Now the sun came out the \ery next day; 
He climbed the sky in a cheerful way; 

.•\nd what was he smiling at? 
I don't know, but the flowers would. 
For they laughwl, and the birds flew as high as 
they could. 

And I 'd love to be free like that! 



Authors of "The Lucky Sixpence." "Beatrice of Denewood." "Vive la France!" etc. 


Peg Travers, joint heir with her brother Jack to the estate of Denewood. in Germantown, which they are too poor 
to keep up and have rented as a school for girls, receives a letter from her brother, an officer with the A. E. F., 
saying that a relative of the family, a French girl named Beatrice de Soulange, has come to him asking for assistance, 
and he has thought it best to send her to America. Her brother, Louis de Soulange, an officer in the French army, 
in an aeroplane flight over the lines, has disappeared and is "missing." Peg. who lives with her aunt in the lodge at 
Denewood. is talking this news over with her cousin, Betty Powell, when the French girl unexpectedly arrives — a 
girl of their own age, deeply interested in the Denewood books and the history of their house. Her first desire is to 
see the lucky sixpence, their family talisman, and when she is told that it has been lost for a century she is astounded 
at the girls' indifference and declares her belief that with it was lost the luck of Denewood. Full of gratitude for 
their whole-hearted hospitality, she determines to find the sixpence and restore the luck of the house. Beatrice 
plans to hunt for it. and. to that end. is anxious to become a pupil at Maple Hall, as the school at Denewood is 
called. On her admission to the school Beatrice begins her search for the sixpence. Miss Maple discovering this 
and thinking it a waste of time forbids day-scholars to go above the first floor of Maple Hall. Peg is vastly 
excited by a letter from Jack asking for a description of the Soulange ring and warning her to stand guard over Be 
lest unauthorized news of her brother rouse false hopes. Shortl\' after, a young man. who announces himself as 
Captain Badger of the British Arm\'. calls, saying that he has news of Louis which he will give to no one but Be. 
With Jack's letter in her mind. Peg refuses to let him see Be. The next day Betty, from the living-room, sees him 
return to the lodge. He mistakes her for Be. and Peg persuades her. in order to obtain news of Louis, to impersonate 
her cousin and. seated outside the spring-house, hear what he has to say, while Peg. concealed inside, could also find 
out what the stranger proposed. The two girls learn that Captain Badger is in search of three hundred thousand 
francs to ransom Louis de Soulange. whom he declares to be held by a band of robbers in France. He assumes that 
Be can supply this mone>' from a hidden strong-box. Betty, posing as Be. insists upon having time for considera- 
tion. He finally gives her till the next day. and Peg tries to consult Mr. Powell, but finds he is ill. Meanwhile. Be, 
ignorant of this crisis in her affairs, has gone to search the spring-house for the entrance to a secret passage she 
believes may be there. She unexpectedly discovers it. and, hearing some one coming, conceals herself in it. She 
examines the passage and finds it blocked by a solid partition at the other end. Then, retracing her steps, she 
tries to reenter the spring-house, but the trap-door refuses to open. Be finally discovers a way to pass the partition 
and comes out in a dormitory of the school. Being upstairs is an infraction of Miss Maple's rule, and she goes to 
the principal's room to acknowledge the fault. Miss Maple is out; but Miss Hitty Gorgas. an old sewing-woman, 
encourages her when she determines to seize the unexpected opportunity and search for the luck\- sixpence. Be 
finds half of it cunningly concealed in a sampler by the first Beatrice, and escapes with it through the secret passage, 
where the trap-door, to her surprise, opens easily. Meanwhile. Peg and Betty are somewhat at odds in their idea of 
the credence due to Captain Badger; but they agree that they dare not tell Be for fear of raising false hopes. Their 
one idea is to gain time until, perhaps. Mr. Powell shall recover sufficiently to relieve them of their responsibility, 
and they decide, if no other way can be found, to tell Badger that he has not yet seen the real Beatrice. 



It was a strange coincidence that, immediately 
after finding the piece of sixpence, Beatrice de 
Soulange should have met the one man in Amer- 
ica who professed to ha\e knowledge of her 
brother's fate. It needed but the exchange of a 
few words to make all plain bet\veen them. 

The British officer saluted politely. 

"I beg your pardon," he said, with a frank 
smile. "1 've lost a bit of jeweln. — a ring, in 
fact. It 's ver\' valuable, and I wonder if by any 
chance you 've seen it?" 

"No, I 'ave not see' it," Beatrice answered, and 
with a slight inclination of the head, she passed 
him and made her way straight to the lodge. 

Captain Badger turned away with a worried 
. expression on his face and began again to poke 
about in the grass with his stick. 

Be, fairly illuminated with joy, ran through the 
house looking for her cousins and, not finding 

them anywhere else, flew into the kitchen. "Is n't 
any one 'ome, Selma?" she asked breathlessly. 

"The young ladies, they have gone away by 
the school," the maid answered. "They look 
for you, I think; but they must soon return for 

"But where is Tante Polly.''" Be demanded. 
She must tell some one of her precious sixpence. 

"Oh, she have gone to Chestnut Hill," Selma 
began, and soon told all she knew of the illness in 
the Powell family. 

"That 's too bad," Be murmured, a little crest- 
fallen. "I 'm sorr\'. But exerything will be all 
right soon. See what I 'ave foil n', Selma." She 
held up the chain with the half coin dangling 
from it. 

Selma's pale blue eyes opened with surprise. 

"It is that lucky sixpence, htrh?" she grunted 
admiringly. B6 nodded ecstatically, and the 
maid examined the treasure-trove closely. "You 
take it off. I shine it like new." 

While the silver was being brought out 




Be told something of the tule of her adventures 
that morning, explaining in detail where the six- 
pence had been iiidden all these years, and Selma 
grinned with interest. 

"I should lak that I see that i^iece of work," she 
remarked, referring to the sampler. "It was 
fine trick, huh.-*" 

"And it was so beautifully done," Be answered 

"I bet you!" Selma ejaculated. "Now it is all 
bright and clean, huh?" She held up the glittering 
chain and sixpence. "I tank it is fine luck. All 
these years the house it has been wearing it, and 
so keep safe for the family, huh?" 

"That is true," said Be, impressed for the mo- 
ment by this idea. "Denewood 'ave wear it. 
Per'aps I should not 'ave taken it away?" 

"It is better that you have it," Selnia insisted, 
with a shake of her blonde head. "You are more 
luckier than a house. Come, I put it on you." 

She attached the broken coin around Be's 
neck and stepped back to admire it in its new 

"Thank you, Selma," said Be. "I shall wear it 
till Paig come back." 

"You wear it longer as that," Selma prophesied 
■ mysteriously. "You are what we call a — " She 
stopped, puzzled. "I cannot tell you the word 
in English, but it means you are like express- 
mans, huh?" 

"Like an expressman!" Be exclaimed, puzzled 
in her turn. "I do not understan'." 

"It is plain," Selma explained, with one of her 
rare smiles. "You carry bunches of good luck for 
other people." 

"Oh, that is nize!" Be cried joyously. "But I 
'ave learned that w'ord in France among the 
American soldiers. It is what they call 'mascot' 
and it is a great compliment to be it." 

With the idea of displaying her treasure to more 
advantage, she ran upstairs and slipped out of her 
school uniform. .As she fastened her dress, she 
heard her cousins come into the hall, chattering 
together, and Horatia's voice proclaiming loudly, 
that all the world might hear, that she was as 
hungry as a bear. 

Beatrice calmed her excited spirits and went to 
n\eet them sedately, conscious of the chain round 
her neck and awaiting with eagerness the moment 
when they should discover it. 

"Now where on earth ha\e you been?" Peg 
demanded, as she cauglit sight of her. 

"We 'vc been looking all oser the place for 
you," Betty put in. 

"When do we eat?" asked lloratia, making 
• straight for the kitchen. 

"Oh, I 'ave had much business of a most 
importance," declared Be. The sixpence on her 

breast felt as big as a dinner-plate and as shiny as 
an electric headlight, yet neither of the girls took 
any notice of it. 

"Hello, Be!" cried Horatia, coming back, 
"we 'II have limch in a minute: and we 'd better 
take our pills, or Aunt Polly will scold when she 
gets home." 

"Be silent, child," commanded Peg, seizing her 
cousin and whirling her round so that she fronted 
B€. "Take care of your own conscience if you 
must, but spare mine. If I take Pulsatilla before 
meals, and aconite after meals, and bn,onia be- 
tween meals, I won't ha\'e any room — " 

"Stop!" cried Horatia, wriggling and pointing 
at Be. "Stop, Peg, and look there. It 's the 
lucky sixpence!" 

Her words brought immediate silence and the 
three stared at the dangling coin in amazement. 

"But where — ?" 

"But how — ?" 

"But when — ?" 

The questions tumbled over each other, as the 
girls clamored for the story. 

"Luncheon is serv'ed," interrupted the com- 
manding voice of Selma, and they bustled into 
the dining-room, the pills forgotten, and even 
Horatia, for the moment, unconscious of the void 
she had so loudly proclaimed. 

Be told her tale with animation, and her cous- 
ins pecked at their food while the\" listened. 

"Were n't you frightened?" asked Peg, unable 
to restrain herself while Be was telling of her 

"Oh, a little," Be confessed, "but that was soon 
ended when I foun' that funny step." 

She went on to the end, amid exclamations of 
surprise, excited questions, and admiring com- 

"Well, 1 think you 're a wonder!" Peg cried, 
jumping up from her place and rushing around 
the table to hug Beatrice. "It 's the most mar- 
velous story I ever heard. I sluiuld h.ive been 
so scared — " 

"No, you would 'ave done as 1 did. ' He inter- 
rupted, "and now you mus' wear il. ' 

Beatrice ptit up her hands to unfasten the clasp, 
btit Peg stopped her. 

"Please, dear," she insisted, slip])ing an arm 
.ibout the French girl's neck, "I want \'ou to 
wear it for a w'hile, anxway. It 's good luck, >ou 
know, and you found it. I want \ou to have 
some good luck, too." 

Be understoml .nul. lilting her lace, kissed Peg 

"My 'eart it is too full to tell \du all I feel," , 
she said simply. "I am glad to wear it for a 
little while; but we nius' rin' the other piece." 

"Of course," lloratia remarked conlidenlialK' 




to !ier chop, "I 'm only a kid and have n't any 
sense; but if somebod>' asked me, I should tell 
them that they 've gone about finding Little 
John's piece of the sixpence all wrong." 

"Oh, you would," Betty cut in sharply. 

"But, being only an infant with an undeveloped 
brain," Horatia went on, disrcgardint; Bctt\'s 
interruption, "I watch 
the feeble efforts of my 
aged cousins and sister 
and wonder if they 'II 
ever learn to use their 

"Hush!" Peg admon- 
ished Betty, who was 
about to comment 
pointedly upon Horatia's 
musings, "hush! Let the 
child ramble. You can't 
tell what ma>- come of it." 

"1 ha\'e observed." 
continued Horatia, still 
addressing the chop, 
"that it is ditificult for 
the ancient intellect to 
grasp the working of a 
less mature mind. They 
are unable to put them- 
sebes in the place of 
little John Traxers and 
determine what he would 
do when he wanted to 
hide something. The>" 
continually think what 
they would do, and that 's 
bound to be wrong." 

"Horatia, dear," said 
Peg, in her most winning 
manner, "why not eal 
the cho]) and talk to us? 
We are ready to sit at the 
feet of wisdom. If you 
have a plan to find the 
rest of the sixpence, out 
with it." 

"I 'd ha\"e told \c>ii 
long ago," Horatia an- 
swered, with a \icious 
ihrust of her knife into the unoffending chop, "but 
1 knew you would n't listen to a child until you 'd 
tried everything else. Well, I have a plan all 
right; though really it was Marjory who gave me 
the idea." 

"Marjory!" exclaimed Betty, increduously. 
"What nonsense! She 's only five." 

"That 's all," Horatia agreed, no whit abashed, 
"therefore she understands the child mind — " 

"Never mind that," Peg broke in; " go on." 

"Well. 1 '11 tell you how 1 came to think of it," 
Horatia replied, "then you '11 begin to see. Mar- 
jor\- and Mark were pla\'ing at hiding things, and 
I told her to jxit whate\er it was — I 've forgotten 
— under the rug; but that would n't do at all. 
She said he 'd find it right away and she wanted 
to biir\- it high up out of his reach." 


"Bury it high up?" Betty repeated scornfully. 

"Certainly," Horatia replied. "I was just as 
stu[)id as you are. till she explained that you don't 
ha\e to put a thing always in the hollom of a hole; 
that, if you have a fine place to bury your treas- 
ure in, you can put it up on the side — behind the 
clock on the mantel-piece, for instance." 

"Stop, stop!" cried Peg. "My poor brain is 
weakening trying to follow you. Where do you 
find caves with mantel-pieces?" 




"Anil is that Marjory's idea cil the way to bury 
a treasure?" Betty asked, with a scorTiful laus;h. 

"I suppose," Horatia retorted im])atientl\', 
"that you think Mother ought to let the children 
dig up the nursery floor to hide things. That 's 
what you girls seemed to expect when \ou went 
over the dormitory at Maple Hall with your silly 
magnifying-glasses. You don't use >'our imag- 
inations. Mark and Marjory had to pretend 
something, so they made believe the nursery was 
a forest and the room beneath it was a hole in 
the ground. Now do you see?" 

The three girls looked at Horatia for a moment 
as if she were some interesting animal at the zoo. 
Then Beatrice voiced her approval. 

"But, of ^ourse, the child is right!" she ex- 
claimed. "We 'ave forgot', because we are so 
old. You remember, when one is little, one does 
not 'ide things where one can reach. One pushes 
a chair, is it not so? then one climbs up and 'ides 
the object — and, very sly, one takes the chair and 
puts it far away. Horatia, she is exacth' right. 
We 'ave not looked properh-." 

"Horatia, accept my apologies," said Peg, 
handsomely. "I remember perfecth' well that 
when I was a kid that 's just the way I did hide 
a thing, and it was so hard not to look at the place 
where I 'd put it. Tell us some more. We are 
your humble pupils." 

"Oh, well," Horatia went on. taking her honors 
easily, "I really think there 's something in it, 
after all. I truly do! After that. I watched 
Owen Hare, who is just about Little John's age, 
and he never thought anything was hidden till it 
was stuck up somewhere." 

"At any rate," Peg remarked thoughtfully, 
"it 's a new way to hunt, and we certainly ought 
to try it." 

"Let us go at once!" Be exclaimed. "To-day 
we 'ave foun' one piece of the sixpence. Let us 
fin' it all. Yes?" 

She turned her l)right eyes from one to the other 

"You forget that we can't go upstairs," Betty 
reminded her. 

"But we don't have to," Horatia explained. 
"Don't you see that if the boys were playing 
buried treasure in Little John's room, they would 
pretend that the place under it was the cave in 
the ground. That 's what I was trying to tell you 

"Of course!" cried I'eg, "and ihat would bring 
it into the hall. That 's where we '\e got to hunt. 
We 'II go right after lunch. Miss Maple is away. 
There 's a whole crowd of girls in town at a 
Kreisler concert and — " 

"Let 's hurry!" cried B6, starting up. "I feel 
that we are going to fm' that sixpence." 

CII.\l'ri-.K XXI 


There was no loitering o\er the rest of the meal. 
They finished quickK' and started up the drive to 
the school, all eager to be on the hunt and each 
filled with the conviction that they would be 
successful. Be, in particular, could hardly 
restrain her enthusiasm. She never doubted 
that the charm of the sixpence was already at 
work. The broken piece around her neck was 
leading them straight to the half that was still 

"Oh, we shall fin' it!" she repeated again and 
again. "We shall fin' it — I feel it!" 

Betty, perhaps, was the least certain; but even 
she had caught the infection from the others. 

"I believe we shall," she admitted. "Of 
course, I don't see what good can come of it, for 
I must say I think it 's all superstition about 
luck, but — " 

"All the same, you 're might\' careful what \'ou 
do on Fridays," Peg interrupted. 

"That 's difterent," Bett\- protested. "E\er\-- 
bod\- knows — " 

B>- this time they were at Denewood and ran 
into the hall, finding, as they had expected, that 
it was deserted. 

"It 's all right," said Peg, dropping her voice 
instinctively, so as not to break the stillness of 
the great house. "We 'II have an hour to our- 
selves, an^nvay. Come on." 

"Horatia mus' be the — eh — 'boss,'" murmured 
Be. "It is her plan, and we but follow." 

"All right, precocious child; lead the way," 
Peg said cheerfully. "We are thy slaves." 

Horatia, conscious of the importance and 
dignity of her novel po.sition among the elder 
girls, assumed an air belitling her advanced rank. 
She walked about the hall for a few moments, 
looking here and there and jiondering deeply 
upon her problem. 

"I 'm not sure if Little John realK' forgot where 
he put that sixpence, or whether his grandfather 
scared him so that he was afraid to tell," slie said 
thoughtfully. "Kids do get awfully scared some- 
times, and when they do, nobody can get a word 
out of them." 

Beatrice nodded understandingU'. 

"I know, it is what you call picnic?" she ques- 
tioned, a little hesitating])-. 

"Picnic?" repeated i'eg. 

"Yes," insisted Beatrice. "When you are, oh, 
so frighten' inside, >"ou do not know whether to 
go up or down or run away. Is not that a pic- 

"Panic! my dear child; panic!" explained Peg. 

"Oh, \es, I will remember, thank you," Bea- 




trice returned, saying the word o\er once or 
twice under her breath. 

"And that 's just what I mean about Little 
John," Horatia went on. "He might have put 
the sixpence somewhere that he was in a kind of a 
panic about afterward. Now let 's see." 

"I wish we knew how many of these things 
were here at the time Little John was," said Peg. 
"It would save a lot of hunting." 

"Miss Hitty Gorgas could tell," Be remarked, 
and the suggestion was hailed with delight. 

"By all means, let 's get her," Peg cried. 
"She 's a dear old thing, though she does talk. 
And if there is anything in Germantown she does 
n't know about, I 've yet to hear of it." 

"But we can't get her unless we go upstairs," 
Horatia pointed out. 

"Oh, yes, we can," Peg replied, and straight- 
way rang a bell for one of the maids, who was 
sent to notify Miss Hitty that she was wanted in 
the hall. 

"And is it you who asked for me, Miss Pegg>'?" 
asked the old seamstress, as she came smiling 
down the stairs. "I remember when you were a 
baby in arms you 'd never lack anything if asking 
could get it for you. Now what is it you want of 
old Hitty? I 'm guessing you 're after the other 
bit of that si.xpence your pretty cousin found this 
morning. Is that it?" 

They all told her it was, and she, not much 
older in spirit than the girls clustered about her, 
listened sympathetically and entered into their 
enthusiasm with great readiness. 

"It 's not a bad idea for a child," she admitted, 
giving Horatia a complimentary pat on the 
shoulder, "and I can easy tell you about what was 
here in the old days." She looked around, sum- 
moning all the store of half-remembered tales 
that had been part and parcel of her life. 

"There 's that great big vase," Peg contributed, 
pointing to a huge porcelain on a stand in one 
corner of the hall. "It came from Holland in one 
of the Travers' ships, but I think it 's really 
Chinese, not Dutch." 

"It is, honey," Miss Hitty remarked. "It 's 
what they call 'famille rose,' which is French, 
though why a Chinese crock should ha\e a French 
name beats me." 

"Now just wait a minute," Horatia broke in. 
"You see if I were playing buried treasure, I 'd 
pretend that the staircase was the hole I 'd dug — " 

"Well then," said Miss Hitty, entering into the 
spirit of Horatia's imaginings, "you 'd come 
downstairs and you 'd look about you for a place 
to hide your gold and jewels." 

"I 'm planning to be awfully smart," said 
Horatia. "There are some other boys playing 
with me, and I want to put these things where 

they '11 ne\er in the world look for them." She 
ran part way up the staircase and glanced round. 
"There 's the clock," she remarked thoughtfully; 
"inside the case would n't be a bad place; but if 
he 'd put it there, it would have been found long 
ago, when the clock was wound; so he did n't." 

"There are the figures on each side of the 
mantel," suggested Be, eagerly. "They mus' be 
'ollow. He could stuff it up inside." 

"We '11 look," said Miss Hitty, briskly, mount- 
ing on a chair to investigate. "But they 've 
been washed so often, it ain't likely." In truth, 
there was nothing inside either figure. 

"The picture of Beatrice is the first thing you 
see from the stair," Horatia was still looking 
round speculatively. "I wonder if Little John 
could have stuffed it in between the canvas and 
the frame?" 

An eager search was made, but again without 

"I '11 tell \ou one thing that 's diflerent from 
the way it used to be," Miss Hitty remarked. 
"I know, because I was here when it was moved. 
That big Chinese vase used always to stand in 
that corner near the stair. Miss Maple said if it 
stayed there, nothin' in the world could keep the 
girls from usin' it as a waste-basket." 

At these words Horatia clapped her hands. 

"That 's where the sixpence is!" she declared. 
"He threw it in there from the landing; and then 
he would n't tell, because he always hoped to get 
it out, or else perhaps he did forget, after all." 

"But how are we going to get at it?" asked Peg, 
in dismay. "Besides, I don't see how >'ou can be 
so sure, Horatia. It 's been washed, too." 

"That 's right," agreed Miss Hitty, "but not in 
a tub. It 's too big to be moved around and too 
valuable to run risks with. I 'm very much 
mistaken if the inside has ever been touched. 
Anyway, we '11 find out, if Miss Be will just let me 
have that tam of hers." 

Be took ofl her cap and handed it to the seam- 
stress; but like the others, she had no notion of the 
use to which it might be put. And to increase 
their puzzlement, Miss Hitty deliberately threw 
the cap up so that it dropped down into the neck 
of the vase. 

"You ought to be on the basket-liall team!" 
cried Horatia. 

"I might do that, too," Miss Hitty remarked 
complacently. "But that is n't what we 're at 
now. You see, girls," she went on, turning to the 
bewildered circle of faces about her, "we '11 have 
to have some of the men in to help us get that 
cap out." 

"Miss Hitty, you 're a wonder!" cried Peg. 
"We 'II get the Schmucks. They 'II do anything 
in the world for us. I '11 call them." 




She ran off, leaving the others to speculate upon 
finding the sixpence and to admire Miss Hitty's 
cleverness, although they had little chance to say 
anything, the old seamstress having an audience 
to her liking, and improving the opportunity to 
do the talking. 

At one point, however, Beatrice broke in upon 
her volubility. "Tell me, please, do you know 


lie, fliat great little ancient Beatrice? 

What further she might have said was inter- 
rupted by Peg's reentrance with the two 
Schmucks. They were so-called "handy men" 
about the place, and lived in small cottages over- 
looking the Denewood grounds. In Revolution- 
ary times, the Jack Travers of that day had be- 
friended an ancestor of the Schmucks; and 
throughout the years that followed, successive 
generations nf their family had lived at Denewood, 

she asked, nodding toward the portrait that 
seemed to smile encouragingly upon them. 

"I know that she lived to be very old." Miss 
Hitty spoke musingly; then after a moment's 
pause, her well-stored memory awakened. "I 
remember! I remember!" she went on. "My 
grandma said that when Miss Peg's own grandma 
died (quite a young woman she was, too), that 
she passed away suddenly in her sleep, just like 
old Lady Travers had done before her. (Old 
Lady Travers is what e\-er\' one called her, though 
it does n't seem possible that the girl whose por- 
trait we 're looking at should ever have grown old. 
But she did.) They said, though, that she never 
had a day's illness in her life, and just went to 
Heaven in her sleep, like." 

"Oh!" exclaimed B6, "now I undcrstan' every- 
. thing! That explain' why she never wrote about 
where the sixpence was in her book. I think it 
was a so beautiful end to a 'appy life." 


content to serve and maintaining a fine sense of 
gratitude. Now, although they were paid by Miss 
Maple, they preserwd an almost feudal loj-alty 
to all with Travers blood. 

"We needs must make haste, Miss Peg," one 
of the men was saving as they entered the hall. 
"Miss Maple ma>' come back any minute, and 
then you '11 be in a peck of trouble." 

"There 's no such awful hurr\-," Peg replied, 
rather huffily. "Nobody could blame a person 
because her tarn gets thrown into a vase." 

"Good morning, Schmuck." Miss Hitty spoke 
generally and both men touched their foreheads. 
"Will you take the greatest care in lifting that 
down, please? It 's a very valuable piece." 

"It is that," one of the men replied. "But 
you 've no need to fear, miss. Nothin' in Dene- 
wood shall come to harm at our hands." 

The \ase rested on a stand of wood, and the 
men lifted it to the floor with some difficulty. 



"'T is surprising heav-y," one of them grunted. 

The other essayed to reach down into it to 
recover the tarn; but Miss Hitty stopped him. 

"While we 're about it," she suggested, "I 
think it might be as well to clean it out. Good- 
ness knows how much dust and trash must be in 

"Get a few papers to spread on the floor, 
Peter," the more loquacious brother ordered. 

"There 's a-plenty in the box for the fire-wood," 
the other grunted, and brought them forthwith. 

In a moment they had up-ended the vase and 
the tarn tumbled out, to be buried at once by an 
avalanche of sand. 

"That was put in to steady it Hke," said Wil- 
liam. "It 's all there is in it, and that had better 
go back again." 

All four girls were on their knees beside the pile. 
Horatia drew forth the tarn and dusted it off, 
while Be passed her hands through the heap of 
sand. Here and there she sifted out lumps that 
proved to be peach-stones, or dried-up apple- 
cores. A broken flint from the lock of a gun, an old 
shuttlecock, a ball, and a large copper coin were 
added to the trove; but the sixpence with its 
chain did not seem to be there, and her head sank. 

The men were growing fidgety. 

"Was there something else you lost, miss?" 
William inquired politely. "If we sift the sand 
back, a little at a time, most like we '11 come 
across it." 

"Will you please be very careful?" Be begged. 
She continued to pass her fingers through the 
sand, rather hopelessly now. A sizable lump of 
some sort she laid with the peach-stones, and then 
the last of the sand was returned to the jar and it 
was set back on its pedestal. 

"What shall we do with these?" The men 
were gathering up the papers and the little pile 
of dust>' objects lay on one of them. Be was 
sitting back on her heels looking at them blankly. 

"They are nothing," she said slowly. "Peg, 
you had better keep the money and the sharp 

"And the little shoe, miss?" the man was dust- 
ing the sand from the shapeless lump which she 
had found last. 

"Is it a shoe?" she asked. "I thought it was 
just a piece of trash." She held out a hand for it. 

"It is a baby's slipper!" she cried. "Per'aps 
one of your baby's." She was on her knees now, 
addressing the portrait, and thrusting two fingers 
into the little shoe she held it up as if for recog- 
nition; but the action was accompanied by a 
sharp cry. 

"It is here!'^ she exclaimed. "It is here! I 
'ave foun' it!" and she drew forth a chain with 
the half of a tarnished coin hanging from it. 

"Oh, good little Beatrice, to guard it all these 
long years!" The girl was quite transfigured with 
joy, and Miss Hitty looked from her to the picture 
and wagged her head contentedly. 

"The luck of the Travers has come back to 
Denewood," she said. 



An hour or so after dinner that night. Peg and 
Be found themselves alone on the little sofa in 
the living-room. Conscientious Horatia was 
upstairs, studying at Peg's desk, as usual, and 
Betty had gone to bed early, declaring she was 
worn out talking about the sixpence. 

It had been an exciting day for all of them, and 
there was little left to be said, so often had they 
gone over the details of their successful search. 
But between the two girls on the sofa there were 
thoughts that could be only half expressed, and 
they were glad to be alone for a time. 

Round each neck hung a jsiece of the sixpence. 
Selma's silver polish had been brought out again, 
and Peg's bit shone resplendentl>' and seemed to 
wink at its fellow. 

"I think I 'ave never been so 'appy," Beatrice 
said softly. 

"It 's funny," mused Peg, "but I would n't 
have been as pleased with a pearl necklace." 

"But no, I should think not!" Be agreed. 
"Such a necklace would be worth only money. 
These of ours are priceless. For >'ou and for me 
they bring an end to all our troubles." 

"Are you so sure. Be?" Peg asked, thinking of 
Captain Badger. 

"How can I not be sure?" Be answered. "All 
this time, since I 'ave come to America, something 
in my heart tol' me that when I fin' that sixpence, 
y"ou and cousin Jack should have Denewood 
again and that Louis would return to us. Well, 
we 'ave foun' it. Voilal" She ended with a 
radiant smile of confidence. 

"But how is it going to happen?" Peg demanded 
after a little. "We need thousands and thousands 
of dollars to take care of Denewood, and what can 
the sixpence have to do with our brothers over in 

"Oh, now you ask me something I cannqt say," 
Beatrice replied. "Per'aps we shall never know- 
how it happen'. Mos' likely not. Yet you mus' 
never doubt." 

"I did n't before we found it, but now — " 
Practical-minded Peg sought for some fact upon 
which she could pin her faith. It was difficult for 
her to accept Be's assurance that all would be 
well, without some evidence that appealed to her 
reason. Dared she say to herself that, as Louis 



de Soulangc was sure to return now that the six- 
pence had been found, she might cease troubling 
about Captain Badger? Could she curtly dis- 
miss the man and trust wholly to a vague, mys- 
terious power attributed to the old coin? Clearly 
she could not. The recovery of the sixpence did 
not in the least relieve her of the responsibility of 
meeting the British officer on the morrow, nor 
set aside the fatal consequences that might result 
if she made a false move. 

Peg was almost tempted then and there to 
make a clean breast of the matter to the girl 
beside her, but she held her tongue, fearing that 
the faith in which Be found such happiness would 
seem to be confirmed only to be shattered later 
by the discovery that Captain Badger was false. 
No, Peg determined to go through with the pro- 
gram as she had planned it with Betty, before, as 
a last resort, she told Be the story. 

"I wish we would hear from Jack," she said, 
after an interval of silence. "I 've been hoping 
he 'd be home by this time." 

"I think they will come soon," Be replied con- 
fidently. - She said it quietly, but with such a 
wealth of assurance that Peg looked at her a trifle 

"You believe that sixpence can do anything!" 
she remarked, almost irritably. 

Be chuckled and put an arm about her cousin. 

' "You do not know how my 'eart it has ached." 

she murmured. "Now it is all smiles, and I feel 

that ever>-thing that I 'ave wanted most will 

come to me." 

"But Jack's return depends upon the War 
Department in Washington," Peg said crisply. 

"But yes, I know," Be agreed calmly. "Per- 
'aps he has already started. How can we tell? 
Only I am sure he will come soon, and with him 
will come my Louis." 

"I certainly hope so," Peg replied, "but you 'd 
think he 'd send us word." 

"The letter may not arrive or it may come 
to-morrow. Who can tell?" 

"To-morrow 's Sunday," Peg reminded her. 

"Then Monday," B6 returned, unruffled. 
"Trust me. Peg," she went on, "there is no need 
to worry. Now when shall we explore that 
Mouse's Hole?" 

Peg had been expecting this question, but 
although she was anxious to \isit the secret pas- 
sage, she must keep the engagement with Captain 
Badger in the morning. She had anlirijiated that 
it would not be altogether easy for BeUy' and her 
to get aw'ay by themselves, and she was puzzled 
for the moment. 

"I don't know when I can go," she s;iid, with 
seeming indilTerence. 

"Do you not want to go?" asked Be, surprised 
at her lack of enthusiasm. 

"Of course, I 'm craz>' to," Peg cried; "but the 
fact is. Be, I 've a date with Betty in the morning." 

"Oh, ho!" laughed Be. "You 'ave a secret, 

"Yes, we have." Peg acknowledged frankly, 
"but it won't last long." 

"Good," said Be. "I will play with Horatia. 
But I am mos' curious to fin' out how it is I 
cannot open the little door one minute and the 
next it go' up so easy. I want to see it wiz a 

Peg sat thoughtful for a moment. She did n't 
want Be hovering round the spring-house while 
she and Betty were intcr\iewing Captain Badger. 

"I tell you what we '11 do. Be," she ex- 
claimed eagerly, as the idea came into her mind, 
"you and I will get up at daybreak and explore the 
whole passage before breakfast! Just us two. 
We '11 take Betty and Horatia through some 
other time. How about that?" 

"Fine!" agreed Be. "Then we can 'ave much 
time and nobod>- to bother us. That will be 
good, and I will show you Monsieur Crapaud. 
But we mus' 'ave a flash-light." 

"Yes, and my bicycle lantern," Peg agreed 
practically. "Come along. I 'II get that ready 
now and then we '11 go to bed." 

Before they separated for the night Be remem- 
bered something she 'd forgotten. 

"Oh, I 'ave not tol' you. But when I come out 
of that spring-'ouse this morning I meet that 
British officer. Does he li\c near here, do >'ou 

For an instant Peg almost betra>'ed herself. 
She was so surprised that she could hardly speak; 
but with an effort she controlled her voice. 

"Did he talk to you?" she asked a little fear- 

"Oh, yes. He ask' if I 'ave see a ring he 'a\-e 
los'," Be answered. 

"Hum!" muttered Peg, with as much indiffer- 
ence as she could assume. "I suppose you did 
n't see it?" 

"No. I had just come out of the Mouse's 
Hole and think of nothing but getting here and 
telling >ou. Good night, cherie." 

Although she was going to make a \-er>- early 
start in the morning, Peg found it impossible to 
go to sleep. She began to be conscious of a 
feeling of dread, as if something was going to 
happen that would make her unhappy, but which 
she could not pre^•ent. 

"I wish to-morrow were over," she said more 
than once to herself, ere she dropped off into a 
restless slumber. 

(To be conliKued) 



When some of us came to consider what tents 
cost, these far too expensi\'e days, an idea came 
out of the clear horizon and unexpectedly pre- 
sented itself. Why not build a paper house? 

Seems ridiculous, does n't it! But then, when 
you come to think of it, many of the Japanese live 
in houses whose walls are made of paper; and if 
they can do it, why can't we? Anyway, it is 
always good fun to try something new. 

Now of course, though we never saw one, we 
knew well enough that the Japanese houses must 
be made with paper of very strong fiber. And ot 
course, they had to be waterproof. Even our 
hea\'iest papers go to pieces when wet, if only for 
a little while. So we had to use a strong paper 
and one that would not get water-soaked and 
soft when it rained. 

Well, you can't buy any paper like that in our 

two strong end-posts of two-by-four stuff seven 
feet long. Then there were two more upright 
supports, to come on each side of the door open- 


stores. We can get strong paper, and we can get 
waterproof waxed papers, but not papers that 
are both strong and waterproof. All right, the 
obvious thing to do was to get a strong paper and 
make it waterproof. And that is easy enough, 
when you remember that tar paint will do this, 
as will any good outdoor paint. So we bought a 
roll of heavy brown wrapping-paper, two feet 
wide, a couple of quarts of black tar paint, and a 
couple of quarts of green outdoor paint. So 
much for the wall and roof covering of our house. 

We decided to make our house, by way of 
experiment, an unpretentious affair, twelve feet 
long and nine feet wide. Two or three people 
could bunk in such a house ver>' comfortably — 
more than that, if you use double-deck beds! 

E\-en paper houses must ha\'e a strong frame. 
Such a frame should be light, but strong. It does 
n't take \ery heavy timber if you have enough 
braces. We made the front and back walls 
first, right on the ground. The front wall had 


ing, and four more uprights, to come one on each 
side of the two windows we planned to have on 
the front. All these uprights — except the end- 
posts already described, were made of ver>' light 
wood, an inch thick and four inches wide, and, of 
course, seven feet long. 

Running along the tops of all these supports 
was a piece of two-by-four, twelve feet long. 
Nails were sent through the two-by-four top 
timber into the ends of the uprights. The roof 
was to rest on this top timber. 

The uprights were also connected at their 
other ends by a board six inches wide, so placed 
that, when the wall was stood up, the upper edge 
of this board would be about eight inches above 




ground. This was for the floor-boards to rest 

Now we filled in the spaces between the up- 








rights, except for the door and window spaces, 
b>' means of strips of wood two inches wide. 
These were placed far enough apart so that when 
the paper was glued to them, each width of paper 

Now for the roof. A letter "A" was made of 
boards, the outer ends of the legs of the A being 
three feet wider than the house from back to front. 
This would extend over the front and back walls 
and even help hold them together, because of the 
notch, shown in the photo, which slipped down 
(i\er the walls. Three of these A supports were 
made. Two of them were placed parallel, on the 
ground, tvvelve feet apart, and the other placed 
betvveen them exactly in the middle. 

The slants of these A's were now joined bj- six- 
inch strips, as shown in the photograph. The 
proportions of the roof were planned so carefully 
and the notches in the legs of the A's measured so 
closely, that when we lifted the roof up over the 
house and let it down, it fitted like a box lid. Be- 
fore the roof was put in place it had been covered 
with wrapping-paper. The strips of paper, the 
length of the roof, were first painted with tar 

IHfc. 1-RAMl.Su "t IHh. i-ULK \\ALL^. UUH IHL KOOi- >h i ON 

would have a wooden strip at top and bottom and 
one in the middle. 

The back wall was made in a similar manner, 
except that we decided to have no windows there, 
and so we filled the side completely with the two- 
inch strips, placing a six-inch board at the bot- 
tom to support the floor-boards. 

This being done, diagonals were nailed in the 
upper parts of these walls to keep them from 
sagging to the right or left. Eventually, diago- 
nals were placed in all the corners, as the photo- 
graphs will show. 

Now the front and back walls were stood up 
and placed nine feet apart. Their ends were 
joined by strips, and windows provided for. And 
' then the floor was put in, with a central six-inch 
board running under the middle so that the 
floor-boards would hax'c sufficient support. 

paint and then fastened to the roof both with glue 
and with laths — each length of paper overlapping 
the length below it. 

Now for the paper! This was, as I said, hea\-\' 
brown wrapping-paper, two feet wide. Strips 
of this were attached to the walls, the strips run- 

XUli IHKUl: 





ning horizontally, and were glued to the two- 
inch boards. The lowest length of paper was 
placed first; the second length o\erlapped the 
first by an inch, and was glued to it. Perpendicu- 


lar laths were nailed over these lengths, of paper 
to help hold them in place; and finally, all four 
walls were completely covered. 

We were afraid it might rain before the sides of 
our house were painted and made waterproof. If 
it had, the rain would have loosened the glue and 
made the paper so soft that it would have fallen 

apart. So with all speed, the walls were painted 
green, care being used to see that the paint went 
completely under the laths used to hold the paper 
in place. This done, we could breathe easy! 

The door was a simple 
matter — anybody who 
can build such a frame 
can build a door! The 
windows were protected 
merely by "awnings" 
made of squares of can- 
\as that could be let 
down fiat, rolled up, or 
held out from the win- 
dows in the regulation 
awning st\-le. 

That is how we made 
it. Did it work? It 
most certainl>' did ! The 
very next day there was 
a downpour of rain. 
Many other rains . fol- 
lowed through the sum- 
mer, but the paper house 
went bravely through 
the season, leaking not a 
drop, and looking as fresh 
as when it was made. 
I don't know how the roof and walls will stand 
the winter snows and blows. But suppose the 
paper does give away I For a very small sum we 
can get more paper and a can or two of paint and 
can live securely and comfortably in the paper 
bungalow and laugh at the high cost of house- 





"Hello, Bill, I hear \'ou 're going to some sort of 
a camp all summer." 

"Riijht you are. But you see, there 's a summer 
school in connection with the camp, an' so I go 
camping and to school at the same time." 
"That 's fine ! What kind of a place is it?" 
"Whj-, it 's Camp Roosevelt, five miles south 
of Muskegon, Michigan. The U. S. War Depart- 
ment furnishes the tents and such things, and the 
summer-school faculty are picked from the Chi- 

cago public* high schools b\- the city Board of 


"There are four of us boys in a tent. There are 

streets of tents, right out in the open." 

"That sounds great! What 's it like up there?" 
"Well, first thing in the morning, you hear the 

bugle-call to get up, and you are up in a jiflfy. 

You '\e got to ha\e your clothes on right, too — 

no shoe-laces hanging loose; no shirt open at the 

neck! Then you line up outside the tents for in- 





spection, and your commanding officer (he 's a real 
army officer, too) comes and looks you over ; and 
if there 's one who is n't O. K., they all have to 
wait until he gets dressed right. Then we all march 
to breakfast, and I '11 tell the world we can eat, out 
there in the fresh air. Next we have setting-up 
exercises, drills, high-school classes, and things like 
that, until noon, when we march over to mess 
again for lunch. Each fellow carries his own knife, 
fork, spoon, tin dish, and cup, and after each meal 
we wash 'em and carr\' 'em back to our tents. 
"At two o'clock the guard for the day is re- 

froni Washington and all over the country to see 
us. Last summer, Major-G«neral William G. 
Haan, of the General Staff at Washington, D. C, 
and Major-General Leonard Wood %isited us and 
inspected our work. And they praised us, too. 

"After parade, we have short talks by the offi- 
cers or prominent speakers. Ever>' other night we 
have movies, good ones, too, all for nothin'. Then 
we march back to our tents, and at nine-thirty the 
bugle sounds 'Tattoo,' and, five minutes later, 
'Call to Quarters,' and then, last of all, 'Taps,' 
which means we must be in bed." 


lie\'ed and the new guard goes on duty. Vou see, 
each fellow has his turn at guard duty. 

"Then in the afternoon we play baseball, volley- 
ball, go swimming, or go over to the rifle-range 
and have galler>' practice and shooting. One day- 
each week we take our laundry down to the lake 
and get lessons in washing our clothes. We don't 
get away with any half-way measures, either. 
Those officers are after us every minute. They 're 
all fine fellows, though, and they teach us a lot of 
things that are good to know. 

"Then we line up for mess again, and right after 
supper we have to get ready for the big event of 
the day, dress-parade. The people from town 
come out to see us, and there are always lots of 
visitors there to watch us, so we have to do our 
best. We march past the reviewing-stand, each 
company with the commanding officer at the 
head, and on all around the campus. Sometimes 
we have drill and inspection — when big army of- 
ficers, generals and majors and colonels, come 

"How much did it cost you to go there?" 

"That 's just the best part of it. It only costs a 
dollar a day, and tha